THE FOUR CORNERS IN CAMP

Nan Went at it Heart and Soul.

THE FOUR
CORNERS
IN CAMP

By
AMY E. BLANCHARD

George W. Jacobs & Company
Philadelphia.

Copyright, 1910, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
Published August, 1910
All rights reserved
Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
IN WASHINGTON

The four Corners were occupying the four corners of the room. This may seem a rather peculiar statement until you realize that the first four Corners were called Nan, Mary Lee, Jack and Jean. Nan, the eldest, was bent over a table by the window in the west corner, Mary Lee was standing before the mirror in the east corner, Jack was sprawled out on the rug in the north corner, and Jean was in the south corner doing nothing in particular and looking abstractedly into space.

The last mentioned was the first to make a remark. “I think Washington is the most beautiful city in the world,” she said moving over to the window and gazing out at the avenue of trees which were fast turning to sunny yellow and brilliant green.

“Not lovelier than München, dear little München,” responded Nan.

“Nor prettier than Paris,” put in Jack.

“Well, I am not sure myself but Jean is right,” Mary Lee asserted. “If it isn’t already the loveliest city it soon will be. Of course it isn’t quite as symmetrical as it might be, and all the funny little frame houses stuck in between stately mansions make it still look as if it wasn’t finished, but time will mend that.”

“It is like a country girl who comes to town wearing shabby gloves and shoes with a nice tailor-made gown,” Nan suggested. “Of course, after a while, when she has lived long enough, she will be quite finished in her dress, but now she still shows that she is young and a little provincial.”

“What a way to put it, Nan,” said Mary Lee.

“It is the way it impresses me,” returned her sister. “Didn’t you notice how raggety and taggety everything looked over here in our own country after Europe? How the fences and stretches of unkempt lots seemed so incomplete, and the poorer houses seemed little and mean instead of being picturesque, and how such things had a tumble-down raw sort of look? Of course I don’t say it will always be so, and in a short hundred years we shall be quite a sumptuous-appearing country, but as yet though we may be important looking we are not very picturesque. Think of those old, old palaces in Venice. Think of those castles along the Rhine, and all the ancient buildings that show history in every feature. Yes, I must say that though we look prosperous we also look painfully new.”

Mary Lee laughed. “You talk like a lecturer,” she said. “Well, at any rate if we are modern we are mighty comfortable, and that suits me.”

“And we do have better things to eat here than we get anywhere else,” put in Jean.

“Bound for you to discover that,” laughed Nan.

“At all events,” Mary Lee went on, “I’m glad to be back again, and I think we have been mighty comfortable and have had a jolly good time this past winter. I’m not kicking, as Carter says.”

“Oh, dear me, neither am I,” replied Nan. “I was only comparing, that was all. I am an American, stars and stripes, spread eagle, Hail Columbia American, if you will have it, though of course I do want to go back to Europe some day, but I don’t want to live anywhere but in this blessed old stuck-up country of ours, and south of Mason and Dixon’s line at that. ‘I’ll live and die for Dixie.’”

“I am glad Washington is south of Mason and Dixon’s line,” remarked Mary Lee with satisfaction. “It certainly was good of Maryland to hand over a piece of herself to make the District of Columbia for the seat of government.”

“Maryland has been a pretty good state anyhow,” Nan rejoined; “she stuck out, wouldn’t give in on that matter of the Western territory and she did a lot in all the wars. I am willing to concede a great deal to her though I stand up for Virginia first and foremost.”

“I should say so,” returned Mary Lee emphatically. “Well, I suppose we shall soon be leaving Washington. Have you heard mother or Aunt Helen say any more about the summer plans? It is time we were hearing from Jo and Danny. Wouldn’t it be nice if they could spend a few days with us in Portland before we branch off to wherever we are going?”

“It would be nice, for a fact. No, I haven’t heard a word about any plans; the only conclusion reached seems to be that we are to go to Portland and from there bring up somewhere. Mother thinks the seashore will not do for her, so I suppose it will be the mountains, or at least somewhere inland; they don’t seem to know exactly.”

“I haven’t a doubt but Danny would join us. Her uncle is so pleased with her progress that he allows her almost anything she asks. I suppose one reason is because she never asks unreasonable things, and is so sweet about giving up when he wants her to. Jo would give anything to be with us, too, I know. Her last letter was a perfect wail; she is so afraid we will not stop in Boston, or will not get there before her school closes. She hasn’t yet recovered from our going to school in Washington instead of returning to the Wadsworth.”

“Oh, but dear me, it has been much better here. We have been able to live at home in this pleasant apartment, and mother has enjoyed it so much; it would have been folly to go back to the Wadsworth.”

“I think so, too,” said Jean coming into the conversation. “I did hate those Saturday night baked beans and never any of our own kinds of hot bread.”

The others laughed. “You certainly are a P. I. G., Jean,” said Nan, then, as Jean put on an injured look, “I mean a perfectly irresistible girl.”

“You didn’t mean that at all,” retorted Jean.

“I think they set a fairly good table at the Wadsworth,” Mary Lee asserted, “still nothing can ever come to one’s own home doings, of course.”

“These home doings were Aunt Helen’s doings,” Nan stated. “She wasn’t satisfied till she had made hundreds of inquiries and had seen dozens and dozens of apartments.”

“It is funny how things turn out,” Mary Lee took up the thread again. “I suppose if we hadn’t met Miss Cameron when we were going to Spain we should never have come to Washington at all this year.”

“I am not so sure of that. I think Aunt Helen had her heart set on it some time ago; she has so many friends here, though we might not have gone to Miss Cameron’s school.”

“The thing I want to know,” said Jack, suddenly rousing herself from an absorbed attention to things out-of-doors, “is what are we going to do between now and the day we start for the North?”

“There are lots of things to do,” Nan told her.

“I think a good way would be to pick out what each one wants most to see,” said Jack; “the way we did in England, you know.”

“Well and good,” returned Nan. “Fire ahead, Jack, you lean damsel.”

“I’m not as lean as you are,” retorted Jack, “and I’d be as fat as Jean if I ate as much.”

“Why, my dear,” said Nan in pretended surprise, “I said Jacqueline, damsel.”

“You didn’t mean it that way at all; you just said the other to make fun of me,” insisted Jack.

“Prove it,” returned Nan good-naturedly.

“Yes, you did,” Jean came to the rescue of her twin, “just like you called me a P. I. G. a while ago.”

“You’re such suspicious creatures,” responded Nan. “Let’s change the subject. Go on, Jack, what do you want most to see?”

“I want to go up the monument, or the dome of the Capitol once more,” she decided.

“Now, isn’t that like you? Nothing short of an aeroplane will ever satisfy you eventually, Jack. When you get to heaven you will wear out your wings before they are full fledged. What is your choice, Jean?”

“Oh, the Zoo, of course. There are some new animals there I want to see. You know I’m crite crazy to go there without crestioning.”

“I know you are crite craulified to be craurrelsome to-day, and that I am in a craundary myself.”

“Oh, Nan,” protested Jean with irritation, “you are so horrid when you mock us that way.”

“I’ll be good, I promise you,” replied Nan. “What about you, Mary Lee? Do you want to go to the Zoo, too?”

“Perhaps, but I must go once again to the Smithsonian. I expected to know it by heart by this time, but the chances to go have really been very few.”

“Well, I am divided between the Government greenhouses and the Corcoran Art Gallery,” Nan told them. “Perhaps I shall have time for both. I declare I shall really be sorry to leave Washington; it is a pretty nice sort of place when you come to think of all there is to see and of all the pleasant things that are going on all the time.”

“We ought to go to Arlington and Fort Myer before we leave; it is lovely there this time of year, they say.”

“Here comes Aunt Helen looking as if she had some scheme afoot. Perhaps she has decided about the summer plan.”

“How would you all like to drive to Fort Myer to see the cavalry drill this afternoon?” said Miss Helen coming in.

“We were just talking about that very thing,” cried Mary Lee. “It would be fine, Aunt Helen.”

“I think you would be interested and it is a lovely afternoon. Your mother doesn’t care to go out for she has been shopping all morning, so if you will get ready we can start off in about half an hour.”

It was already June and there was a feeling of summer in the warm air. The season comes early to the capital and the gardens were gay with flowers; roses clambered over porches and windows, fountains were playing, and grass was green in the parks. Those who summered away were fast leaving and the streets were not so full of people as earlier. Old Georgetown retained its usual quiet, broken at intervals by a passing trolley-car or an automobile climbing up the steep streets.

“There is one thing I like about Washington,” remarked Nan as the carriage turned to cross the Aqueduct bridge, “we need only to pass over the Potomac and we are in Virginia, and we can, moreover, see the shores of our native state any time we choose. How lovely the green banks look, Aunt Helen.”

“And the river, too,” said Jack. “I like those places where the trees bend over to look at themselves in the water.”

Nan smiled at her little sister. Jack was wont once in a while to surprise her by some such remark. She was a harum-scarum little somebody, very sociable and impulsive though warm-hearted and with a fearless spirit.

“And now we are in Virginia,” she went on as the carriage left the bridge for the road.

“I don’t feel a bit different,” remarked her twin.

“Oh, don’t you? I do,” declared Jack. “I feel as if the blackberry bushes and sumachs and the trees all belong to me.”

“I hear a bugle call,” said Mary Lee. “We must be near the post.”

They soon drew up amid a line of carriages overlooking the parade ground where a body of cavalry went through the manœuvres. Horses dashed hither and thither, there was a clash of sabres, a flash of steel as the riders wheeled into position; then came the thud of horses’ hoofs as they responded to orders. At last, after a furious gallop and a mad slashing at pretended foes, the drill was over and the carriages turned away.

“I liked it,” cried Jack. “Wasn’t it exciting when they waved their sabres and went tearing around the field? I imagined them swooping down upon the Indians when they did that.”

“I saw one man thrown,” said Mary Lee, “and his horse just trotted off to his place in the stables quite as a matter of course. Wasn’t that sensible?”

The driver by whose side she was sitting smiled. “Dem beases has lots o’ sense, miss. Dese yer ones o’ mine don’ lak nothin’ bettah dan goin’ to one o’ dese yer drills. Dey knows jes’ as well when we turns fo’ de bridge. Did yuh see how dey kep’ a-lookin’ an’ a-lookin’ lak dey want ter be in de fiel’ deyselves?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t; I was so interested myself. I wish I had noticed them. They are nice horses,” she added; “so sleek and well kept.” It was a joy to her to discover a driver fond of his horses.

They drove on to Arlington, that fair estate, and all were silent as they went through the embowered avenues where lay the quiet soldiers who were at peace after great conflict. The elder girls and Miss Helen were more than usually moved, for the old home of the Lees had been that of their own kin, so they talked but little and were glad to pass out of the gates before the sunset gun gave notice of closing. Across the river arose the domes and spires of the capital city with the shaft of the monument white against the sky.

“We’re going up that to-morrow,” announced Jack.

“I’m not,” declared Jean; “I’m going to the Zoo with Mary Lee.”

“Then you don’t want to go Juning to the Great Falls with me?” said their aunt.

“’Deed and ’deed we do,” cried Jack. “We didn’t know that was on.”

“Is it to be a picnic, Aunt Helen? Won’t that be fun?” said Jean.

“Would you rather go there, to Alexandria, or to Mount Vernon?” asked Miss Helen.

“We’ve been to Mount Vernon,” said Nan; “it would seem more picnicky to go to the Falls, don’t you think?”

“Time was when it was very picnicky to go to Mount Vernon,” said Miss Helen reminiscently. “I can remember when I was a girl that we used to take luncheon and eat it on the grass there in front of the house. Visitors were few then and the regulations were much less formal; one almost felt as if she were visiting the family, we were given such freedom. We could always get milk from the dairy, could have a clipping from the garden, and had access to many places which now are shut away from the public.”

“Then I shouldn’t think you would care to go there at all.”

“It doesn’t seem much of a privilege in comparison with the old free and easy times.”

“Then we will vote for the Falls. Don’t you say so?” Nan appealed to her sisters, who all agreed that it would be much more like going a-Maying, or a-Juning as Miss Helen called it, if they took a luncheon to the woods instead of making a pilgrimage to Washington’s old home.

As usual Jean was most particular in the matter of what was to fill the lunch baskets and superintended in person the making of sundry special sandwiches, the buying of a large bottle of stuffed olives, and the careful packing of certain rich little cakes, so that her individual basket showed no frugal meal. As Jack always depended upon receiving a share of her twin’s provisions she did not trouble herself to look out for more than crackers and cheese and a little fruit while Nan with Mary Lee’s help saw to it that there was enough for a substantial luncheon in the basket which was to serve themselves and Miss Helen.

Their way took them up the Virginia side of the river to where the water of the Potomac dashed madly over the rocks in furious eddys and fierce whirlpools, being whipped into froth as it was carried noisily on to the clearer and quieter waters below.

“If it were in Europe or even in New England,” remarked Nan when they had seated themselves on the river’s bank and were contemplating the rushing stream, “this spot would be advertised and made one of the places to which tourists would flock from all parts of the country, but here it is not generally spoken of and one may say is scarcely known.”

“I am glad it is so,” declared Jack. “I like it just naturally wild and the way it has been all these years. I don’t like the cleaned up places, so neat and exact, all walled in and set around by particular foot-paths with ‘Keep off the grass’ signs everywhere, and ‘Admission twenty-five cents’ at the entrance.”

“That’s where we agree, my dear,” Nan told her. “But, Jack, my honey, don’t try any dangerous leaps or adventurous heights as you are so fond of doing. Once you get caught in those rapids there is an end to Jacqueline Corner; we couldn’t possibly get you out.”

Jack peered seriously down into the seething waters. Nan’s words were sufficiently terrifying to keep her away from ticklish places, and she made no random ventures.

“It would be nice to camp up here,” remarked Mary Lee as she munched a jam sandwich.

“Not as nice as some other places,” returned her aunt. “That gives me an idea, girls. I’ll follow it up. Why didn’t I think of it before? Capital! Just the thing! Why, of course it is! How stupid of me.”

“You are so mysteriously disjointed, Aunt Helen,” cried Nan. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t tell you exactly, myself, but you shall know to-morrow. I’ll go to see Miss Stewart this very evening.”

This only whetted the curiosity of the girls, but their aunt changed the subject and refused utterly to tell them what she had in mind. Therefore they sat contentedly under the trees while they finished eating their lunch, looking across at the shining length of canal, and the tossing tumult of water between them and the verdant heights of Maryland’s shores.

But Miss Helen was evidently so eager to further her plans that she hurried them back before the afternoon was over and while the hucksters were still crying strawberries in the drowsy streets of Georgetown and the bugle calls at Fort Myer announced that the cavalry drill was in progress.

CHAPTER II
IN PORTLAND

What was in Aunt Helen’s mind was made clear the next morning at breakfast when she asked, “How should you all like camping out in Maine?”

“Fine! Perfectly splendid. We’d love it above all things. Great!” came from various quarters. “So that is what you were talking of yesterday, Aunt Helen. Do tell us all about it.”

“Well, I followed out my intention of going to see Miss Stewart, who not long ago was telling me of her very pleasant experience last summer when she went to a camp in Maine. Her report was so good that I continued the matter by calling on Miss Marshall, who is one of the two ladies having the camp in charge. Everything appears so favorable that after talking it over with your mother we have concluded it will be the best thing for every one concerned to spend some time at this special camp, and I shall telephone Miss Marshall at once that she may count upon our party.”

“Exactly where is it?” asked Nan.

“On a lake not far from the border lines of Maine and New Hampshire, with the White Mountains in sight, and a spur of them near enough for any one to climb who feels so disposed.”

“Lovely! Go on. What are we to do there?”

“You can have a canoe, two, if you choose, and learn to paddle them.”

“Delicious thought,” cried Mary Lee.

“You will be able to take a walking tour up the mountain, sleeping out in the open in order to be on hand to see the sunrise.”

“Capital idea!” This from Nan. “What else?”

“Oh, you can roam the woods, read, play games, drive, do anything that comes to hand.”

“Shall we sleep in tents?” asked Jack.

“You girls will, though I believe there are two or three cabins; your mother and I will occupy one.”

“Shall we have good things to eat?” asked Jean a little anxiously.

“Miss Stewart says so. Miss Marshall takes a real Southern cook from here, so we can count on hot bread at least. Plenty of fresh milk and butter are provided, vegetables from neighboring farms and fruit, too, so that it sounds most alluring.”

“I should say it did,” returned Mary Lee. “It is the very nicest thing possible. I am crazy about it, and it will do us all so much good to live out-of-doors, mother especially. When do we start, Aunt Helen?”

“The camp opens the first of July, but I think we shall start on somewhat earlier than that and take a week in Portland. It will be a good centre for some excursions and we shall enjoy a short stay there, I am sure.”

“’Way up in Maine; think of it,” said Jack. “I never expected to go there.”

“But we were nearly there when we went to the Wadsworth school,” objected Jean.

“I don’t call Massachusetts nearly,” returned Jack.

“Do we have to provide anything special?” asked Nan.

“Yes, I believe you are required to have certain things.”

“And what are they?”

“Bloomers, short skirts, flannel shirts or jumpers, blankets and pillows; if there is anything else I have forgotten, but there is plenty of time to find out.”

“What fun. May we go right away and get the things we know we shall need?”

“You may if you like. I think I can go with you this morning. It behooves us not to be too leisurely about it for June is upon us and your mother wants to escape the hot weather of Washington. It will be much pleasanter to wait in Portland for July than here.”

So that very day there was a shopping expedition to the Boston store, to Kann’s and to various other places which should supply the needs a camping out would mean. Then speedily as might be, the start for the North was made; Washington’s broad avenues were exchanged for the clean, hilly streets of Portland, swept by sea-breezes and quiet enough after the busy cities of New York and Boston, to each of which they had given a day. Neither place was unfamiliar, therefore there was no sightseeing, only a flying visit to see their dear friends Mr. Pinckney and Miss Dolores in New York, and from Boston a trip out to the Wadsworth school to visit some of their schoolmates of two years before. Charlotte Loring had entered college and her face was missed, but Jo Keyes and Daniella Scott were on hand overjoyed to see the four Corners.

The idea of camp appealed to both, to Daniella especially, for she had begun life in the woods and its wildness still suggested the freedom and unhampered days of her childhood. “I know papa will let me go if I ask him,” she said when they urged her to be one of the party.

Jo, however, when they put the question to her, shook her head. “Too expensive a treat for this child. Something like a pitch-your-tent-on-our-back-lot would suit my purse better, none of your modern elegancies such as summer camps are. If you had suggested my packing my tent and my clothes in a canoe, lugging it across country on my back and dumping it down by Lake Memphramagog or Molechunkemunk Lake or some such Indian haunted spot, I might consider it, but as it is, nay, nay, Pauline; Josephine has not the price.”

But here, as often before, Miss Helen came to the rescue, and after marching Jo up and down the porch for a few minutes, during which there was earnest conversation, the two returned to the group sitting at the further end, and Miss Helen announced, “It is settled. Jo is going with us.”

“If my family consent,” put in Jo as a proviso.

“Of course they will consent,” said Nan. “You know they will. My, but that is fine, Jo. We consider you a great acquisition to our party.”

“Thanky kindly, marm. I’m ready to dance a jig for sheer joy. After all these months of separation you Corners seem more desirable than ever. Next year it’s a greasy grind for Jo if she goes to college, for she will have to put herself through by sewing on skirt braids or doing some such menial work for the rest.”

The idea of Jo sewing on skirt braids or anything else was so funny that they all laughed. “Do try some other stunt than sewing, Jo,” Nan proposed, “for I am sure your needle will never put you through anything.”

“You don’t know what I can do till I try. I am like the man who was asked if he could play the violin, you know; he said he couldn’t tell for he had never tried.”

“What about you, Danny?” asked Mary Lee. “Of course you will write to Mr. Scott at once.”

“Of course I shall. Let me see, the first of July is not three weeks off, and school closes in less than a week; there will be about ten days in between.”

“Oh, well, we can easily put in that time somewhere; I can go to Aunt Kit’s; she wants me,” said Jo.

“And you will see Bruce,” exclaimed Jean. “How is he getting along, Jo?”

“Finely. You never saw a cat more made of. What shall you do with your in-between, Danny?”

“Louise Burnett has been asking me for a visit after school closes, and so has Effie Glenn.”

“Dear me,” ejaculated Nan, “how this all does remind me of the old days. Has Blue China another parrot, Jo?”

“No, thank goodness, and this year she has been away a good deal so we have been spared her prim presence.”

“Reminiscing does so fly away with time,” remarked Mary Lee as she looked at her watch. “We must go if we are to get back to mother in time for dinner. Well, girls, it isn’t good-bye, it is only auf wiedersehn.”

“Or hasta luego,” put in Mary Lee who preferred Spanish for reasons of her own.

“You are such a darling, Aunt Helen,” whispered Nan when they were seated in the train. “It was just dear of you to do that for Jo.”

“I like Jo,” returned Miss Helen, “and I think she ought to be given every chance. She has improved wonderfully.”

“Yes, I must say that she has. She used to be the slangiest creature I ever saw; she is not near so boisterous either.”

“It seemed to me that it would be just as well if she didn’t go home this summer. I don’t think her stepmother is the slightest advantage to her.”

“Far from it. Well, if she does get through college she will then be able to make her own way and live her own life. Isn’t Danny a beauty? but she always was. Talk about improvement, there you have it. You never hear her say nowadays such things as: ‘she gave it to you and I,’ or ‘those sort of girls.’ Dear me, we had a struggle with her to get those two things all right. Now she seems like any other nice girl and she visits the Burnetts and the Glenns constantly. The Glenns are so very fond of her, and the Burnetts want her to spend the summer with them at their seashore cottage.”

“She will enjoy the camp far more.”

“I am sure of it; one could see how eager she was.”

Portland reached there were three weeks still before them, but these were by no means slow in passing. A trip to the beautiful Songo River, to the various islands in charming Casco Bay, to the old town of Brunswick to see Bowdoin College and the old Longfellow house; there was no lack of places to go and at the end of two weeks they had not exhausted all their resources, then suddenly upon the scene appeared an entirely unlooked-for figure. The meeting came about in this way: Miss Helen was making some purchases in one of Portland’s pleasant shops when a gaunt, weather-beaten woman happened to be standing by her side. She was peculiarly dressed, wearing men’s boots and a man’s coat rather the worse for wear; on her head was a nondescript hat and her bony, gloveless hands gave evidence of rough work. As Miss Helen gave her name and address the woman looked at her sharply, then followed her to the next counter before which she stopped.

“Excuse me,” began the stranger, “but I heard you give the name of Corner. We don’t have that name up here, but my mother had relatives of that name; she hasn’t heard from ’em for years, but she would be that pleased if you happened to know any of the family in Virginia. You speak like a Virginian and that’s why I made bold to mention it.”

“I am from Virginia, and my name is Corner,” returned Miss Helen. “What is your mother’s name?”

“She’s a Hooper now. My father was Everett Hooper, but her maiden name was Daingerfield and she was from Albemarle County, Virginia. Maria Carter Daingerfield was her name before she was married.”

“Why, of course; she was my mother’s first cousin, I suspect. I’ve often and often heard my mother tell the story of how Maria Daingerfield was carried off prisoner by a Yankee officer; that is the way she used to put it.”

“Yes, and that’s the way my mother still puts it. Well, well, well, won’t she be pleased when I tell her?”

“She is still living?”

“Yes, but pretty feeble, keeps her room winters altogether. I do wish, Miss Corner, that you could find an opportunity to come to see her. We live up Sebago way; it’s easy getting there. You could take the train to Sebago and I’d meet you, and if you could just set the day. Are you alone here?”

“No, cousin—— Is your name Maria, too?”

“I’m Phebe, Cousin Phebe, if you like. No’m, I’m unmarried; I’m still Phebe Hooper.”

“And I am still Helen Corner. My brother’s widow and her four girls are here with me in Portland.”

“Fetch ’em along if they’d like to come. Come all of you and spend the day. My, my, it’ll be like a breath of summer from the pines to mother. Dear suz, I’m that excited I dunno as I shan’t miss my train. When did you say you’d come?”

Miss Helen thought rapidly. “Where did you say it was?”

“About two miles from Sebago.”

“And that’s on the way to Fryeburg, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we might stop off on our way to camp.”

“Be you going to camp? Well, I declare. I cal’late you’d be just as well off under a roof, but every one to his taste. When you going?”

“In about a week or ten days.”

“Why can’t you come make us a visit and stay that time? Where you putting up?”

“At the La Fayette.”

“Dear me, we can’t give you hotel accommodations, but if you can be content in our two spare rooms we’ll make you as comfortable as we can in a farmhouse.”

“Oh, my dear Cousin Phebe, you are too kind; we couldn’t think of bearing down upon you with such a legion, but we shall be delighted to spend the day.”

Miss Phebe looked a little relieved. She did not wish to seem wanting in that Southern hospitality whose traditions her mother had struggled to keep alive, but to take in six strangers with their baggage would have been an undertaking rather beyond her powers. “Then just name the day,” she said, “and I’ll meet you. There is a good morning train and it isn’t much of a trip. The sooner the better, for mother’s feeling right smart now. She has a spell once in a while but she had one last week and I cal’late she won’t have another for a while.”

“Then shall we say day after to-morrow?”

“That’ll suit first-rate. Give me time to get mother prepared. I’ll be at the station sure. Good-bye. I’m so pleased to have met you. I’ll look for you Thursday if it don’t rain.” She picked up the net bag she carried and hurried off, Miss Helen looking after with an amused smile.

“Mary,” she said to her sister-in-law when she returned to the hotel, “did we ever suppose we should pick up a relative here away down east?”

“Why, Helen, who is it? I’m sure I know of no one.”

“Who is it, Aunt Helen?” asked Nan looking up from some post cards she had bought that day.

“Well, my dear, her name is Phebe Hooper.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Neither did I,” declared Mrs. Corner.

“Wait a minute. Surely you have heard of Maria Daingerfield.”

“Now I begin to see light. She is the one of whom the elder members of the family speak with bated breath because she married a Yankee officer. Her father practically disowned her, didn’t he? Cut her off with a shilling, so to speak?”

“Yes, poor man, if he had so much as a shilling when the war was over. He was very bitter, I believe, and I have heard mother say that Cousin Maria had practically no intercourse with her family after she went North to live. Well, my dear, I have this morning met her daughter Phebe Hooper, a rough and ready sort of person, but I imagine she is as good as gold. At any rate she is good to her mother and wanted the whole party of us to come make them a visit. Of course I knew it was out of the question to think of quartering six absolute strangers upon them, but I liked her for asking; it showed that there was a lot of her mother in her, though she talks like a Yankee, not of the best class, either, and doesn’t look like any of our family that I ever saw. Well, we compromised by my promising to take you all to spend the day with them on Thursday. They live in the country near Sebago and I think that it will not only be a pleasure to us but one to Cousin Maria, as well. She is quite an invalid from rheumatism. It will be a great thing for her to hear of her old home and those relatives we know something about.”

“Won’t it be a lark?” said Nan. “Poor old dear! Imagine living all your life away from Virginia when you were born there.” She spoke with such fervency that Miss Helen laughed.

“You are the most loyal girl, Nan. You lead us to suppose that there is but one state worth while and that it is our own.”

“Nan is a true Virginian,” said Mrs. Corner. “She probably will admit that there are advantages elsewhere, but that preëminent above all other spots is her native state. She feels a little sorry, I think, for those who were not born in the Old Dominion.”

“I believe I do,” Nan acknowledged thoughtfully.

“Rather conservative and provincial, Nan,” warned Miss Helen. “You’ll have to learn to be more cosmopolitan than that, else we shall have to keep you traveling till you do see that each country, each state or city has its own attractions and can make some claim over the rest. All are not entirely good.”

“Munich came pretty near it,” said Nan with a thought to the charming German city where they had spent six months.

“You are making progress if you can admit that much and yield it claims over Virginia.”

“It has different attractions, of course, but——”

“Exactly. That is what I have been saying. No place on earth has everything, but to return to Cousin Maria. Shall you all be ready to take an early train? And, Mary, do rack your brain for reminiscences for the entertainment of Cousin Maria. I am sure she will want to know all about every Tom, Dick and Harry who was ever related to her in the remotest degree.”

“We’ll be ready, won’t we?” Nan turned to Mary Lee who promised that she would for one, then scenting a romance she said:

“How did it happen that she married a Yankee officer?”

“Quite in the approved way of romances. During a battle which took place in the neighborhood, Captain Hooper was wounded and was brought into the house. Cousin Maria’s father was in the Confederate army, so were her two brothers; both brothers were killed, by the way, and that was one reason for her father’s great bitterness of spirit. Cousin Maria, her mother and her old mammy nursed Captain Hooper and in due course of time the young people fell in love with one another, which was a perfectly natural sequel. Well, he went away, Maria’s secretly accepted lover. Later on the invading army burned the house to the ground, which naturally added to old Colonel Daingerfield’s bitterness, as it was the home of his forefathers. Maria, her mother and the old mammy took refuge with a neighbor. The colonel’s rage, distress and despair made him so violent that he could say nothing but evil of those who fought on the other side, and once when he learned that Maria had received a letter from an officer in the Federal army his fury knew no bounds. So, poor Maria felt that it would be useless ever to expect his consent to her marriage with her lover, though she managed to get letters through the lines to him once in a while. After a while when everything they possessed was swept away, and her mother died, she was in despair. Her father was either gloomy, severe and forbidding or in a paroxysm of rage when the future was mentioned, so she decided that she would go to her lover whenever he could plan for their marriage, then a little later on, when his company was encamped near the town where she was staying, he dashed in one night with a couple of horses, and, as she always maintained, literally carried her off prisoner. They were married at once by the chaplain of the regiment and she went to Washington to some friends there to remain till the war was over. She never saw any of her people again.”

“I think that is a most thrilling tale,” said Mary Lee. “I am fairly tingling with excitement, and I am so glad we are going to see the heroine of such a story. Do you believe she will tell us more about it? I should like to hear all the details.”

“Perhaps she will, though it may be that she will not care to talk of it.”

“Did her father never forgive her?” asked Jack, who had been listening.

“I don’t know that. I hope so, though he can scarcely be blamed if he didn’t. She was his only remaining child, and he felt that she had deserted him, her home and the cause, not to mention her relatives.”

“I couldn’t desert my family for any man,” said Jack positively.

“I expect she was awfully homesick,” remarked Jean.

“I’d like to take her something, Aunt Helen,” said Jack.

“What should you like to take her, Jack?”

“Something from Virginia, if I had it.”

Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen exchanged glances. Jack was the most warm-hearted child in the world and the thought was quite in character. “I brought away some snap-shots of the old home and some of the scenery around,” said Mrs. Corner. “They are some Dr. Woods sent me, but I can get duplicates, I know. How should you like to get a small album to put them in and give that to Cousin Maria?”

“The very thing!” exclaimed Jack. “That is a darling idea, mother.”

“I’ll show them to you if you will get them from my room,” said Mrs. Corner. “They are on the shelf where the clock is, and are in a blue envelope. We can select whatever seems suitable.”

Jack ran off highly pleased, but leaving all the others busily thinking what they could carry as gifts to their down-east cousin.

CHAPTER III
COUSIN MARIA

The romance surrounding Cousin Maria’s early days gave zest to the expedition upon which the Corners started on the day appointed. Each was provided with some gift; Jack, of course, carried her book of photographs, Mary Lee took a little Indian basket, Jean had a box of peppermints. “Old ladies always like peppermints,” she said. Nan had wavered between a volume of Father Ryan’s poems and one of Thomas Nelson Page’s collections of stories, but finally decided upon the latter as perhaps Cousin Maria did not care for poetry.

It was not a long trip, and when they alighted at the station it was still rather early in the day. Miss Phebe was there to meet them, “booted and spurred,” as Nan said afterward. If the children had not been prepared, and if they had not been too polite to stare, they certainly would have gazed in amazement at the odd figure which presented itself to their view as they stood waiting on the platform. Miss Helen made the proper introductions which Miss Phebe acknowledged in the set phrase, “Pleased to meet you,” and with a funny little bob of the head. She led the way to a weather-beaten old buggy, mud-splashed and dingy. “I cal’lated one of you could ride in here with me,” she said, “and the rest could go with Nathan in the wagon. He’s put a lot of clean straw in, and I guess you’ll go comfortable.”

“Oh, a straw ride? What fun!” cried Jack, to whom most novelties were agreeable. “Aunt Helen, you can sit with the driver if you want to.” As Jack always claimed this privilege for herself, Miss Helen was fain to believe that either she was disposed to sacrifice herself to her aunt’s comfort, or that riding on the straw-strewn floor of the wagon held superior charms, so she smilingly acquiesced. They all clambered in after Mrs. Corner had taken her place in the buggy, and the start was made in a merry mood.

Nathaniel, or Nat, as he preferred to be called, was a shrewd-looking, lank young man, younger than his length of limb and huge fists would indicate. He spoke in a high key with a slow, soft drawl and was not backward in asking questions, though he vouchsafed replies to those Miss Helen put to him, and by reason of which she learned that he was Miss Phebe’s sole assistant except when the apples were to be gathered or some other crop should be brought in.

“Me and her runs the place,” said Nat. “She works as good as a man when it comes to some things. No, marm, she ain’t no hired girl. I fetch in the milk; she tends to it. I look after the stawk, caow, and three hawses; she tends to the fowls. We got a sight of apples last fall, great crawp. I tended to gittin’ of ’em in, she tended to shippin’ of ’em. Taters same way. Yes, marm, we got a pretty good garden, not so smart-looking as old Adam Souleses maybe, but I ain’t ashamed of it. First corn I put in, didn’t the crows get every namable bit? Wal, I rigged up a scarecrow and got out my shotgun, so I guess the second crawp’ll stay where it was put. Your folks raise a sight of corn down your way, don’t ye? Use it, too, I hear. I ain’t a mite stuck on corn bread myself. She makes good sody biscuits, though the old lady does complain she makes ’em too precious big. I like ’em that way. Don’t have to say ‘Pass them biscuits,’ so often, or if they’re on the other side of the table you don’t have to rise every few minutes to fork one over. It’s a right sightly place, ain’t it?” He pointed with his whip to a low white house whose barn was in such close proximity as to be literally under the same roof. An extensive apple orchard, whose blossoming was just over, stretched for some distance on one side. Two poplars stood in front of the house and a weeping willow upon the modest lawn around which the roadway extended. “That’s our tater patch.” Nat indicated a field which they were passing. “We grow ’em big up here.”

“They’re not the only things you grow big,” Miss Helen could not forbear saying with a glance at the display of ankle below the blue jeans.

Nat burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s right I swan it don’t seem as if I’d ever stop growing, and these here pants hitches up higher every time they come out of wahsh. Look at them sleeves, too.” He stretched out a mighty arm which showed several inches of red wrist below the band. “I won’t come of age for three years nearly, and look at me, bigger’n git out. My grandfather was just that way, growed and growed till they had to pile bricks on his head to keep him down so he could stand up in the settin’-room.” He gave a wink over his shoulder at Jack, who was taking this all in.

“What became of your grandfather?” asked Jack, standing up and hanging on the seat where her aunt sat. “Did he keep on growing?”

“No, he stopped short of six foot six, and when he died there wa’n’t no coffin big enough for him. Had to send to Portland and have one made special. They didn’t surmise he’d need it so soon or they might have had it ready beforehand so’s not to put the funeral off like they had to.”

“Did he die suddenly?” asked Jack, interested in this lugubrious subject.

“Yes, marm. Died awful suddent. Got up as well as you or me, eat his breakfast, tended to his hawse, white hawse he had, come in the house, fetched a few hacks and went.”

Jack sidled over toward her aunt and whispered, “What does he mean by hacks? Did he keep a livery stable?”

Miss Helen could scarcely keep her face sufficiently grave to whisper back: “No, dear, he means he coughed once or twice.”

“Wal, here we are and here we be,” announced Nat, drawing up his horses before the gate. “I see Miss Phebe’s got ahead of us, but what can ye expect with a load of six and her with only them two. Jest wait, marm, and I’ll lift ye down.” He performed this office, if rather ungracefully, certainly skilfully, for he swung the little figure of Miss Helen to the ground as if she were a bag of potatoes. The others clambered out at the tail of the wagon and went forward to where Mrs. Corner and Miss Phebe stood on the little porch before the door. On either side lilacs were in bloom and a climbing rose was trained over the window.

The entry, covered with oilcloth, separated parlor from sitting-room. The former, opened only on state occasion, had a queer, musty smell, as of a place seldom aired. Haircloth covered furniture stood at stiff angles. A marble-topped table bore a lamp, a photograph album, one or two books and ornaments. There were two crayon portraits on the wall, one of Captain Hooper in uniform, another of a young woman with two children by her side. The four girls disposed themselves upon the long sofa which stood primly against the wall.

“Isn’t it stuffy?” said Jack in a low tone to Nan.

Nan nodded.

“Why don’t they open the windows this lovely day, so the smell of the lilacs can come in?” continued Jack.

Nan shook her head at the questioner, for Miss Phebe appeared upon the threshold. “Mother’ll be pleased to see you,” she said, addressing Miss Helen. “I think, if you’ll excuse me,” she turned to the girls, “that she’d better not see you all at once; it might be too exciting for her; she’s not used to much company. Do you mind waiting till she’s got accustomed to your mother and aunt?”

The girls assured her that they did not mind in the least.

“If you’ll entertain yourselves with any of the books or things, we won’t be long,” continued Miss Phebe apologetically. “There’s a box of shells on the lower shelf of the whatnot; you might like to look at them. My Grandfather Hooper was a seafaring man, and he brought them home from foreign parts. Some of them are real pretty.” She stooped down, lifted the box and set it on the broad window-sill, then she conducted Miss Helen and Mrs. Corner to the room across the entry.

While the twins took possession of the box of shells Nan and Mary Lee made a survey of the books on the table.

“They’re awfully stupid,” declared Mary Lee, reading the titles: “‘History of Cumberland County,’ ‘The Life of General Grant,’ ‘Aids to the Young.’ What a funny old book. Thomson’s ‘Seasons,’ Young’s ‘Night Thoughts.’ Do look here, Nan, at the illustrations; aren’t they weird? Oh, dear, I’d hate to be shut up long in this house. Do you suppose we dare to open a window or go out-of-doors?”

Nan laid down a copy of Shakespeare she had found. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps we’d better not take any liberties. I don’t suppose it will be long before we shall be summoned.”

“Do look at this carpet,” continued Mary Lee; “isn’t it hideous? And whoever heard of keeping a carpet down all the year round? And those portraits are ghastly. Is the lady Cousin Maria, do you reckon, and is the little girl Cousin Phebe? I seem to distinguish a faint likeness.”

“I should think it might be she. Let’s look through the photographs, then maybe we can trace her all along succeeding years.”

They took the red morocco album over to one of the windows and began to turn its pages, once or twice happening upon some photograph familiar to them. “That’s Cousin Martin Boyd,” cried Nan. “He is in Aunt Helen’s album at home, the old one that was her mother’s. And oh, Mary Lee, the lady in hoops and a funny bonnet is Grandma Corner herself. It isn’t a bit like the lovely portrait that used to be at Uplands, but I recognize her. And there is father when he was a youngster. Don’t you remember it? I fancy that very fierce-looking individual in Confederate uniform is Cousin Maria’s father. The others must all be Hoopers by the cut of the jib.”

“I don’t think they’re a very interesting lot,” remarked Mary Lee, viewing the series of stiffly posed persons, bearded men in long-tailed coats, women in hooped petticoats and beruffled gowns worn long on the shoulder, and with hair arranged in waterfall curls. “They take much better photographs now,” she commented.

“Of course. Probably the art was in its infancy when these were taken.”

“Certainly these people weren’t,” returned Mary Lee. “They look as ancient as the hills, even the children.”

“Here comes Cousin Phebe with an order for our release,” said Nan. So they put the album back on the table and stood waiting.

“Mother’s ready now,” announced Miss Phebe. “She was quite overcome and I had to give her some drops, but now that she’s over the excitement of the meeting she is quite happy and wants to see Grace Corner’s grandchildren, she says.”

The girls filed in procession across the hall to the door of the sitting-room which Miss Phebe opened disclosing a bright, cheerful room with plants in the windows, a red table-cloth on the table, a bright carpet, a sideboard set off with silver and glass. By an open fire sat a little white-haired old lady in black gown and white cap who looked up expectantly as the children entered. “Come right along, my dears,” she said in a pleasant voice. “This is a great day for me. You’ll excuse my rising, I’m so stiff with rheumatism.”

The girls came forward and stood a-row, Mrs. Hooper scanning each one in turn as they were presented by name. “Nancy looks like the Corners,” she decided, “Mary Lee like her mother’s family; the others are composite; they are twins, you said, Phebe.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Little Jack Corner’s children. He was such a boy when he went into the army. I remember well the day he came over to tell us he was going. Dear me, dear me, so long ago, so long and here I am a New Englander. Dear me, dear me.” She shook her head as she looked from one to the other. All the old memories were stirred by this sudden appearance of her kin.

Then the presentation of gifts took place, a process which while it greatly pleased Cousin Maria reduced her to tears. “To think of it, Phebe,” she whimpered, “my own flesh and blood kin and they’ve brought me gifts as if they had known me all their lives. Oh, there are none like them, none like my own people down South.”

“Now, mother,” said Miss Phebe in a tone which sounded severe, but which really arose from hurt feelings, “I hope you remember that father and I weren’t from down South.”

“Oh, you’re a good child, Phebe; I know that, and Everett was a good, kind husband, but you are both alien, alien.”

This was pretty hard on Miss Phebe considering she had always been the most dutiful and conscientious of daughters and sacrificed herself daily for her mother, but as Miss Helen said afterward, “the Daingerfields always were sentimental,” so Cousin Maria was allowed to have her little weep and then recovered herself enough to become quite animated over the gifts, all of which pleased her mightily, though the photographs seemed to possess the greatest value in her eyes.

Miss Phebe slipped out, the duties of hostess and cook so clashing that she was put to it in trying to fill both offices suitably. “Phebe’s a good child; a better daughter than I deserve,” sighed Cousin Maria. “She is a Hooper to the back-bone, I can tell you that; just like her father’s people.” She turned suddenly and laid her hand on Miss Helen’s arm. “Oh, I tell you, it wasn’t easy at first. Oh, my dears, you will never know what it is to be as homesick as I was. I had a good, kind husband and I loved him, but their ways were so different. I never had been used to lifting a finger; always a houseful of darkies at my beck and call; always neighbors to drive over and gossip. Oh, my dears, when I saw my mother-in-law and her daughters doing their own work, rarely visiting, keeping the parlor shut up year in, year out, no dances, no fun of any kind, I was appalled. Of course I was looked upon with coolness and dislike because I was a Southerner, but that did not make as much difference as the other things, and when I learned what was expected of me——” She shook her head and sighed deeply. “It was uphill work, that learning their ways. Once or twice I was so unhappy I was ready to fly from it all, but there was Everett, so kind and considerate, though he could only half guess what I missed, and then came my baby, my little son.” She paused and wiped her eyes.

Miss Helen gently patted her hand. “Never mind, Cousin Maria,” she said, “that is all over now, and even if you had gone back, or if you had never come away it wouldn’t have been the same. There were hard times in Virginia and all throughout the South; the women down there had to work as hard as here, after the war.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. When my little boy died I realized something of what my parents suffered, and I felt it was a judgment on me for leaving my father, so I could never rebel against the punishment, for I could see it was just. Poor father! He did forgive me at last, you know. When my baby died I wrote to him, but he did not answer till a year later, but he forgave me.”

“I am so glad,” breathed Jack pressing nearer. “You know we think you had such a beautiful romantic love story, Cousin Maria, and we were so glad we could come to see you,” though in her heart of hearts she was rather disappointed that the heroine of the tale should prove to be this plain little old woman. “I wish you would tell us all about it; how you ran away with Captain Hooper and all that; we are so interested.”

Mrs. Hooper smiled reminiscently, then she turned to Mrs. Corner. “You would know her for a Southern girl, so spontaneous and outspoken. Well, dear, I will tell you how it was.”

Though Nan would like to have listened to this story she had an uneasy feeling that Miss Phebe might need help, so she quietly left the room. Nan was always the one who carried the heaviest packages, who ran back for umbrellas, or lugged a double amount of hand-luggage, so it was like her to do this. She conjectured that the kitchen would be at the back and she set to work to find it, first opening the door of a closet, then one which led out upon a back porch, but the third one seemed to be right, as she found a little entry from beyond which came sounds and odors which told of the kitchen’s whereabouts. As she paused upon the door-sill Miss Phebe, busily stirring around, cried out, “Land sakes!” as she saw the figure in the doorway.

“I thought perhaps I could help you, Cousin Phebe,” said Nan.

Miss Phebe looked quite taken aback and said nervously, “No, thank you; I couldn’t think of letting you do such a thing.”

“But why not?” Nan could not understand the New England spirit which scorned assistance and resented intrusion.

“Please,” she continued. “I always help Cousin Mag when I go over there. Couldn’t I set the table?”

“Oh, no; I set that before I went to the train.”

Still Nan persisted. She stepped into the kitchen. “Well, I could pare potatoes or something.”

Miss Phebe shook her head. “Nat did those after breakfast. There is really nothing to do. I made the pies and doughnuts this morning, the custards yesterday. There isn’t a thing to do but stir up some sody biscuits. I’ve got the peas and potatoes on. Does your ma like tea or coffee? and your aunt, what does she drink?”

Nan was doubtful. She knew her Aunt Helen depended upon her afternoon tea, and missing it to-day might like it earlier. “Suppose I go and ask,” she said.

“Oh, no, I can make both,” returned Miss Phebe hurriedly.

“But why, if it isn’t necessary?”

Miss Phebe murmured something about its not being polite. Her Puritan conscience would not permit her to be slack in even so small a matter, nor must her guests discover her wanting in hospitality, so as Nan saw she would be really distressed if the question were carried further, she gave up all idea of making inquiry, but begged Cousin Phebe to allow her to skim the milk and cut the butter which finally she was permitted to do.

“You must have been up very early to get so much done before you went to the train,” remarked the girl.

“Not much earlier than usual,” was the reply. “I wasn’t up before four.”

Nan stared. Four o’clock! and she had been on the go ever since. “I should think you would be worn to a bone,” she said looking at the wiry spare figure.

Miss Phebe smiled grimly and said, with a little bridling of the head, “We don’t believe in wasting daylight up here.” Surely the ante-bellum days had departed for Cousin Maria Hooper who, in the other room, was telling of the good old times before the war, when she “never raised her hand to do a thing and was carried around on a silver waiter, my dear.”

“If you want to get along you’ve got to work,” said Miss Phebe reading something of Nan’s thought.

“Or else be smart enough to make others work for you,” returned Nan laughing. “Isn’t it a sign of ability to plan what a duller brain executes?”

“I was never taught to expect any one to do my work, and I never had time to stop to ask such questions,” returned Miss Phebe with a little asperity. “My father died when I was eighteen and I have been at it ever since, trying to keep up the place and make a little out of it.”

“Shall I carry these in?” asked Nan, seeing it was out of place to argue, and standing with bread-plate in one hand and butter in the other.

“If you will be so kind.”

Nan went into the dining-room and set the things on the table, then she helped Miss Phebe dish up, carrying in peas and potatoes, pickles and jelly, doughnuts and “sody” biscuits, custards and pies and lastly—wonder of wonders—fried chicken. This was Miss Phebe’s chef-d’œuvre, a dish suggested by her mother and one which the daughter had been taught to prepare years before. Yielding in this one particular she offered a Northern bill of fare in other respects, to Jean’s great satisfaction, who was delighted to see the array of sweet things, doughnuts and pies, preserves and cake, custards and cookies.

“Even Emerson ate pie for breakfast,” remarked Miss Helen as they settled themselves in the train late that afternoon. The day had been an unforgettable one in many respects, in which the quaint, queer figure of Cousin Phebe stood out alone.

“With so many excellent qualities, so many virtues, and yet so unattractive,” said Mrs. Corner.

“No doubt if you could penetrate the crust you would find a warm heart,” returned Miss Helen. “Cousin Maria is pathetic, and how she clung to us! I am glad we promised to see them again before we leave these parts. Poor Cousin Maria! Environment has forced her into a growth different from that which nature and birth intended, and she is worn out in the struggle. She told me nothing in life could have given her such pleasure as our visit. One feels very humble before such a state of things.”

“And yet,” said Nan, “there is nothing Cousin Phebe would not do for her mother, and I believe she enjoyed our coming, too, though one would never guess it except that she was so eager that we should come again.”

“I don’t believe she works a bit harder than Cousin Sarah,” commented Jack.

“Oh, my child, Cousin Sarah never in her life got up at four o’clock in the morning to make pies and doughnuts before breakfast,” said Nan.

“Nat says if we will come in the fall he will show us more apples than we ever saw in our lives,” remarked Jean.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mary Lee; “he never saw the Albemarle pippins on Cousin Phil’s farm up on the mountain.”

CHAPTER IV
THE START FOR CAMP

In a few days came Daniella Scott and Jo Keyes, ready to join forces with the Corners. Jo was in high spirits. This was her last year at the Wadsworth school and she felt free as a bird, she declared. Daniella, whose school-days had not begun till she was quite a big girl, was still looking forward to several years of boarding-school life. The prospect of a summer in the woods was perhaps dearer to her than to any of the others.

There was first to be a short railway journey, then a long ride by stage and finally a drive of two or three miles which would bring them to the borders of a lovely lake set in the green-wood, and here they would find the camp.

As they left the train, at a small town, a big old-fashioned stage, swung on leathers, lumbered up. It was drawn by four horses and its driver, a wiry old man, with a tuft of white beard under his chin, called out, “Be you a-going to Friendship?”

“We are,” replied Miss Helen.

“How many air ye?”

“Eight.”