“I Am a Stranger in This Locality,” He Explained.

THE
CAMP FIRE GIRLS
AT
HALF MOON LAKE

BY
MARGARET VANDERCOOK
Author of “The Ranch Girls” Series, “The Red Cross Girls” Series, etc.

ILLUSTRATED

PHILADELPHIA
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1921, by
The John C. Winston Company

STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS
List of Titles in the Order of their Publication

The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls’ Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls at the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor The Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England The Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake

CONTENTS

Chapter Page I. [Indian Summer] 7 II. [Half Moon Lake] 19 III. [Old Friends] 29 IV. [The Hermit] 43 V. [A Conversation and a Loss] 57 VI. [“A Man for a’ That”] 72 VII. [Friendship] 83 VIII. [Midwinter] 92 IX. [The Poet’s Corner] 107 X. [Holiday Guests] 116 XI. [Juliet Temple] 128 XII. [Friends That Were] 142 XIII. [Anxious Waiting] 154 XIV. [Christmas Eve] 162 XV. [Romance] 173 XVI. [An Encounter] 195 XVII. [Closed In] 204 XVIII. [Spring] 212

ILLUSTRATIONS

[“I am a Stranger in This Locality,” He Explained] Frontispiece PAGE [For a Moment the Man Stared in Silence] 59 [Sally’s Hands Beat Against the Closed Door] 160 [“I Wish You Would Help Me About Something,” She Said] 189

The Camp Fire Girls
At Half Moon Lake

CHAPTER I
Indian Summer

Two girls were following a narrow trail.

About them the woods were scarlet and flame, golden and bronze, and in contrast the blue-green depth of tall pine and cedar trees.

Down a steep hill the trail led; on either side a thick underbrush of wild grapevines and blackberries that twisted and sprawled, showing shriveled clumps of seed pods where formerly the fruit had ripened.

One of the girls, wearing a corduroy costume of hunter’s green and a tam-o-shanter of the same shade, was carrying a rifle, while over her shoulder hung a brace of rabbits and half a dozen quail.

Following close behind her the second girl’s costume was of the same character, a short skirt and coat with leather leggings and high boots, but of dark blue.

“Do you think we are lost, Gill?” she inquired cheerfully.

Her companion shook her head.

“Well, as David Murray says, we are where we shouldn’t be and don’t know where we are, but I should never call that being lost, would you, Bettina?”

Grasping a small birch tree firmly so as not to be obliged to continue her descent, and forcing Bettina to imitate her example, Gill turned halfway around.

“To get down this hill and find our camp before dusk I suggest that we follow the fashion set by ‘The Waters at Lodore’. I am not sufficiently literary to recall the exact lines of the poem, I leave that to you, Princess, but there was something about their dashing, splashing and tumbling, something quick and active, and in contrast to our methods for this past hour. Farewell, valor at present is the better part of discretion, to transpose the axiom.”

As she ceased speaking, releasing the slender young tree and bracing her feet together, Mary Gilchrist began to slide down the steep incline.

In the heart of the Adirondack forest it was now early in the month of November and about four o’clock in the afternoon. Overhead the sun was still shining and the sky a warm blue, yet from the ground arose a light mist, playing in and out amid the underbrush and the bases of the trees, ethereal and evanescent, the floating draperies of unseen fairies holding an autumn carnival.

Bettina Graham continued her downward progress more slowly and cautiously.

Over the trail beech leaves and birch leaves and the long fingers of the pine had blown in little drifts of amber and green which, mixing with the decaying wood and wet earth, formed a slippery aisle.

Ten minutes elapsed before Bettina rejoined her companion. She then discovered Mary Gilchrist seated upon an overturned log, her gun and game on the ground beside her, her hat in her lap, while she shook bits of brushwood, twigs and leaves from her hair and removed them from her apparel.

The autumn sun shone through an arch of branches overhead on the red-brown of her hair, on her eyes so nearly the same color, on her healthy, lightly freckled skin, and her full, irregular lips.

“I am glad the turn in the trail concealed the latter part of my prowess as a mountaineer, Bettina. I certainly came down swiftly enough toward the end. In fact, I had hard work holding on to my rifle,” Gill announced, shaking her head a second time so that a bronze leaf slid on to the earth. “But if I lost my dignity I did not lose my gun or game.”

“You are not hurt, are you, Gill?” Bettina asked, looking with admiration and amusement at her companion.

Then as she shook her head:

“Do you know, Gill, it has been a curious fact in our Camp Fire life together, living as we have for the past few years in different places and under such a variety of conditions, to find here and there one of us discover the environment for which she must have been intended. Vera Lagerloff and Alice Ashton, for instance, were at their best when doing reconstruction work in France. You, Gill, were very busy and useful over there, and yet no one has known the real you until these past few weeks in the mountains. Yet why should this be true when you lived all your past life in the western prairie country until your desire to drive a motor in France led you to join our Camp Fire and help with the relief work?”

“I sometimes feel that I have not yet found my true environment. Do you remember the wonderful new play Tante read aloud the other evening, ‘Beyond the Horizon’, whose theme is that each human being must live in harmony with his own nature, else he will never find happiness or success?”

Mary Gilchrist smiled.

“I remember it after a fashion, but, Bettina dear, please don’t ask me to understand literary subtleties. You know there is no one in the world who cares less than I for books, although to my shame I confess it, but I don’t believe I ever read or studied voluntarily save when I thought it my duty. Every interest with me is an outdoor interest and I confess I have never loved any place so well as these Adirondack forests. Somewhere in my past I must have had an Indian ancestor, not a squaw, but a great chief who roamed these hills, hunting and fishing, sleeping and living outdoors when it was possible, because I feel at present as if I never wished to do anything else, except perhaps see my friends and family now and then. But enough of conversation, Bettina, woodsmen or woodswomen we have been told were a silent race and we must learn the law of the woods. What I really would like to know is in what direction we should travel to reach camp in the shortest length of time. We have been following a deer trail I believe that has led us nowhere. However, we cannot be many miles out of the way. We must move now toward the west, and, Bettina, let’s not separate again, you know you have no sense of direction once you are more than a mile away from camp.”

Unable to dispute this assertion, Bettina Graham, who was beginning to grow tired while her companion appeared as fresh as when they set out, followed obediently beside her.

A half hour longer they walked, Gill rarely hesitating, although keeping her compass in her hand and glancing at it occasionally, when suddenly both girls stopped short.

They were not alone in this portion of the woods. Not far off some one else was moving, finding the way slowly and uncertainly.

Mary Gilchrist glanced at her rifle, which she carried with skill and assurance.

“I cannot imagine who can be in the woods at so late an hour. I must try and find out.”

Placing her fingers on her lips the girl uttered a shrill, clear call.

Silence.

A moment later she repeated the call.

Then both girls heard a voice shouting in a tone of mingled terror and relief.

“I have lost my path. Won’t some one come and find me? I can never manage to reach you.”

The girls exchanged glances.

“A lost knight in the dark forest, Bettina! Well, these are the days when women are the modern crusaders, so let us to the rescue!”

Not many minutes after, the two girls came upon a young man of about twenty lying gracefully outstretched on the ground upon a fragrant bed of balsam, with an open book in his hands.

As Bettina and Mary drew near he arose.

“I was resting,” he explained, “knowing that you would have less difficulty in discovering me if I remained quiet in one spot.”

His manner was so self-possessed and self-assured that Bettina smiled, observing, however, that Gill appeared annoyed.

Small wonder! Their faces were flushed, their clothes covered with brambles from their search, while he showed no sign of discomfort. His hair, worn longer than was usual, was of a bright gold, his skin pallid and his cheeks slightly sunken, making his long, curiously shaped gray eyes more conspicuous.

“Yes, one can see you have not disturbed yourself,” Gill returned. “Yet if you wish to be out of the woods before twilight, you had best make some effort. Fortunately I discovered the trail we were seeking while looking for you. Please follow me.”

She turned sharply and moved off, her figure vanishing between the trees, every inch of her body alert, vigorous, almost boyish, with her rifle and game over her shoulder.

Nevertheless the newcomer glanced at her with an expression of disapproval, while his eyes sought Bettina for sympathy.

“I am a stranger in this locality,” he explained. “I intend spending the winter at a cabin in one of the clearings. ‘Long, long is the autumn dream in these corridors of heaven’,” he quoted.

“Yes, I know,” Bettina answered; “still, I think it might be just as well not to discuss the beauty surrounding us for a short time and follow our guide. You cannot depend on me and I am sure you appear to be an equally unreliable woodsman. Gill,” Bettina called, realizing that Gill was walking more rapidly than usual and that they might be forced to run rather than lose sight of her.

Out of breath they both were when finally they caught up. A few yards farther on, the path broadened, leading between an avenue of sugar maples raining golden leaves.

“You have been hunting,” the young man remarked in an effort to induce Mary Gilchrist to behave as if she were aware of his existence.

The fact was too obvious to require an answer, notwithstanding Gill nodded.

“Do you actually mean you have shot and killed those pretty little things yourself, those gentle, furry rabbits with their soft eyes and cotton tails and the quail one can hear calling to one another with their sweet, throaty notes? The wild animals one might be willing to destroy, although I scarcely think that fair in their own haunts. Surely a portion of this world should be reserved to them as well! But even when one reconciles oneself to the idea of a man hunting, the thought of a woman or girl being willing to kill is beyond my conception.”

Bettina saw the hot color flood Gill’s cheeks, saw her bite her lips.

“Well, you may now broaden your conceptions! I have been hunting since I was a little girl, was taught by my father a good many years ago. Do you know I have an idea, that were we to invite you to have dinner with us to-night, no one would enjoy the game I have just killed more than you. There are so many people in this world who like to sentimentalize and leave the hard work to others, while they enjoy the results. You were quite willing to remain on your couch of balsam needles this afternoon while we scoured the woods in search of you. Your plan is an excellent one, so long as it is successful. Never do the difficult or disagreeable tasks; always find some one to do them for you.”

Ordinarily gay and sweet tempered, Bettina glanced at the younger girl in surprise.

If Gill were wounded by the stranger’s speech, her revenge had been swift and sure. Evidently her point had struck home, since, although he appeared angry, he made no reply.

By this time they had reached a spot so near their camp that Bettina herself recognized the environment.

A white birch tree stood alone in a small clearing, rising thirty feet in the air; on this autumn afternoon the foliage was still so dense that one could barely see the light between the thick branches.

Their path led past this tree only a few yards away.

The three of them paused.

Issuing from between the leaves came the note of an animal, or bird, wild and plaintive, yet unfamiliar.

In an instant Mary Gilchrist loaded her rifle, lifted it and fired.

The same instant Bettina gave a quick cry of warning. The next a small figure fell from the tree, limp and headlong as a wounded bird.

CHAPTER II
Half Moon Lake

Bettina had the little figure stretched out with the head sloping downward and was opening her first aid kit with trembling fingers when the others reached her.

Blood was staining the little girl’s Camp Fire dress and bright crimson sweater.

“Get me some water at once, I don’t believe the wound is serious. You can trust me, I am studying surgery.”

Bettina was gone for several moments.

On her return she saw that the little victim’s eyes were open and that she was attempting to talk. The wound had proved only a flesh wound and the shot had not lodged in her arm, notwithstanding, their new acquaintance was making a careful investigation.

A few feet away Mary Gilchrist stood, never having moved, or offered a word of apology, or of fear, or remorse. The face was an odd one, animated, filled with color and life; it was charming, yet once the color and animation departed, except for the fine eyes, the face was plain, the features were so irregular, the nose sky tipped, the lips too full, the chin revealing more character than beauty. Extremely pale, her expression at present was more sullen than sorrowful.

“Let me walk back to camp, I should like it better,” the little girl insisted, when Bettina and the stranger had volunteered to carry her. Her arm was bound and hung in an improvised sling.

Not many yards further on the smoke of a camp fire could be seen in the late afternoon haze.

The small procession walked three abreast with Mary Gilchrist a few steps behind.

“We, too, plan to spend the winter in the Adirondacks, with our Camp Fire club, our guardian and a few relatives and friends,” Bettina explained. “We have a beautiful camp on Half Moon Lake, but you will soon see for yourself! The arrangement is a good deal of a surprise. After a summer in England[1] we intended to make a trip through Ireland, but after a few weeks found the country so unsettled we decided to sail for home. Most of us were really very glad. I was, because I had discovered this little girl in Ireland by that time. Chitty I told you was a Lancashire girl, the daughter of a miner. She lived with us in England and then ran away with her father to Ireland, so we never expected to see her again. Her name is really Elce. Chitty is a queer, Lancashire word that means a tiny, black kitten and was a title the miners gave her, as their mascot. But the name does not suit; Chitty is a blackbird and has a magical voice.”

Bettina Graham smiled down at the little girl of about twelve years of age, whose uninjured arm was slipped through hers.

“We are now in sight of our camp. See, is it not lovely as I said? The Indians call this locality ‘Place Where the Storm Clouds Met in Battle with the Great Serpent.’ We call our camp, ‘Tahawus,’ which means cloud.”

The young man whistled softly.

They were descending a low hill, sparsely covered with beeches, poplars and birch trees and a few evergreens, where but the thick growth evidently had been cleared away. The hill led down into a narrow valley, a broad stripe of shining ribbon. In the center lay a lake upon which a motor launch and several row boats were washing softly to and fro. Beyond Half Moon Lake rose an extraordinarily high mountain with files of spruce trees stationed like sentinels up and down. Over the mountain at this hour showed the first pale glimmer of a crescent moon. About an eighth of a mile from the lake stood a wide, low cabin built of logs with a generous veranda. Beside it were two smaller cabins of perhaps only two or three rooms, but connected with the large house by enclosed runways.

In front of one of the smaller houses a camp fire was burning. Wreaths of smoke were curling out of the chimney of the central cabin, as in spite of the Indian summer days, the autumn nights were cold.

Several girls in Camp Fire costumes were preparing the evening meal over the open fire, while three older women were walking slowly up and down at no great distance away.

“You will stay and have dinner with us?” Bettina said cordially. “We both are strangers to the life of the woods, yet hospitality is one of its first laws. By the way, I have not told you my name, nor have you told me yours. I am Bettina Graham, my father is Senator Graham of Washington. My friend is Mary Gilchrist. Gill, won’t you speak for yourself? Do come and walk beside us.”

But Mary Gilchrist made no rejoinder, nor did the newcomer urge her. To Bettina his manner if a little abstracted was perfectly courteous, but between him and Mary Gilchrist the antagonism, born of their meeting, her recent impulsive action had augmented.

“My name is Drain, Allan Drain. I beg your pardon, I did not realize I had not introduced myself. I believe I did tell you I was studying surgery. The choice is not mine, it is what my family wish for me, not what I wish for myself. I want to be a poet, a great poet. I am almost glad my health has broken down so I am forced to spend this winter alone amid the everlasting hills.”

Bettina felt slightly embarrassed, but need not have concerned herself as she was not in her companion’s thoughts.

Entirely self absorbed, he had thrown back his head, showing that his features were strongly marked, his nose prominent, the cheek bones high.

It struck Bettina that his star gazing at present was inward and at his own dream of his own star. He seemed a vain and not a practical person. If Gill’s estimate of his character were severe, yet it might hold a germ of truth.

“Then why do you study surgery?” Bettina demanded. “Still if one is a poet, a real poet, I do not believe another profession can keep one from fulfilling his gift. One might not write so much poetry, but it might be all the more beautiful.”

Her companion shook his head.

“No, you are altogether wrong; that is what too many people argue. A poet must live his own life in freedom and among his dreams. But one must eat, for even poets require food. My own people are poor, but I have an uncle who is a distinguished surgeon and, as he has no children, wants me to follow in his footsteps, and is willing to pay for my education. Don’t think I do not see the greatness of surgery, but I am entirely unfitted for the profession and the life is too difficult. I don’t like an active existence; perhaps your friend was right: I may prefer to leave the hard tasks to others and only enjoy the results of their effort.”

Tahawus camp was now only a few yards away. Bettina turned and moved back a few paces to join her friend.

“Gill, go to your own room at once if you prefer. I will explain how the accident occurred. Of course you had no way of guessing, but it may be painful to have to confess before so large an audience.”

Mary Gilchrist shook her head.

“No, Princess, you are kind as ever, but I must do my own confessing. I feel as if I had no right to continue a member of our Camp Fire after my behavior, when all my life I have been warned against just such recklessness. Why, except for the good fortune I did not deserve, I might have—” but here Gill faltered and stopped.

She then moved on ahead and Bettina saw her pause before the group of older women. A moment after they were listening to her story.

Half an hour later Bettina joined her in her cabin, in the meantime having introduced the young poet to Mrs. Burton, the Camp Fire guardian, to Miss Patricia Lord, and to her own mother.

She discovered Gill sitting on the edge of her bed.

“I am to talk over matters with Tante in the morning when we can be alone. Of course she was very kind. Aunt Patricia, however, told me what she likes to call the plain truth. Bettina, do you think it my duty to leave this fairyland as a punishment for my behavior? Perhaps if I remain I shall only get into a worse difficulty! Have you ever in your life met anyone you disliked so instinctively that you felt assured the influence over you could only be for evil? You may think me absurd as you like, but the young man we met by accident this afternoon immediately had that effect upon me.

“I trust I may never see him again, in fact I mean to make an effort not to see him. I’ll not come to supper, I do not wish for any. You may give him my share. One thing I do know we ought never to be brought into contact with each other, and yet now he is apt to appear at camp at any moment and I shall be responsible, since you would never have been able to discover him had you been alone!”

Suddenly Gill’s chin went up and her color returned.

“You don’t think I am cruel really, do you, Bettina, more so than the other girls? I only shot the game because I heard Aunt Patricia say Mrs. Burton required it and there was no chance to buy fresh provisions until the end of the week. However, I don’t believe I shall ever hunt again. Perhaps in any case I had best not spend the winter at Half Moon Lake; after all, I may be happier at home! There are in my character certain faults the Sunrise Camp Fire has not yet found out. We were too busy in France to think of ourselves or of each other.”

Bettina smiled.

“Why, Gill, what a depressed mood you are in! It is most unlike you. Small wonder you do not like our poet if already he has had this influence upon you! By the way, he is having a beautiful time at this moment with Tante and mother and I don’t believe will ever trouble any of us. It strikes me that he feels entirely superior to girls and requires an older audience to appreciate him. Farewell, of course I’ll bring you your supper. Chitty is not suffering in the least and things will adjust themselves in the morning when the poet shall have disappeared and been forgotten.”

“There is no hope of his disappearing,” Gill returned disconsolately. “One does not so readily dispose of one’s evil genius.”

However, she joined with Bettina’s laughter at her expense.

CHAPTER III
Old Friends

“Well, thank goodness our youthful guest has departed at last. I was fearful that he would stay so long we could not have our hour together before bedtime. It is a magical night; do you suppose it would do you any harm, Polly, if for a little while we go outdoors? Then perhaps we shall be safe from interruption. I am afraid I am selfish enough to want you to myself now and then, dear, as I used to in the old days.”

“Nonsense, it was I who wanted you, and too often failed to secure you. You were the favorite then as you have been ever since. This evening, for instance, you so charmed the young poet that he completely ignored the girls. In fact, you flattered him as no one of the Camp Fire girls would have condescended to flatter. However, you doubtless have prepared your own punishment, for I am convinced he will expect you to read his poetry.

“Suppose we do slip out of doors for half an hour. I will put on this old fur coat as a protection against the cold, and the night is divinely clear.”

A few moments later the two women, who were among the original group of Camp Fire girls, stole quietly out of the cabin and arm in arm walked down toward the shores of Half Moon Lake.

“I wonder, Betty, how long you will be able to endure the solitude of our winter woods? I trust until after the snow falls; it has been so long since we were together in any intimate way. Yet I’m afraid you’ll soon be growing lonely and anxious for the society life you love and that loves you.”

“Nonsense, Polly! You will not be able to be rid of me so promptly. And why should I be lonely with you and my own Bettina here? Certainly I have seen but little of either of you in these past years when you have been living and working in Europe. So long as my husband remains in the West and my son at college I shall stay with you until you, or more probably Aunt Patricia, drive me away. Do you know, Polly, actually I need to make my own daughter’s acquaintance, to earn her affection and confidence as you possess it. It is true, although I do not enjoy the confession, that I do seem to understand boys better than girls and more easily make friends with them. Tony and I have always been more intimate than I have ever managed to be with Bettina. The Slim Princess, as Andrew calls her, has been her father’s daughter more than mine. Polly dear, how have you managed to be so successful a Camp Fire guardian so many years? Frankly, I did not think it was in you! You were more reserved as a girl, more self-centered than the rest of us, because of course you were a genius, dear, and that means one must lead a more introspective life. Yet you have managed to be an artist and a wonderful Camp Fire guardian as well. How many different temperaments you have seen unfolded, how many girls you have helped through an infinite variety of experiences! I wonder if the other mothers are as jealous of you as I am?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Betty,” Mrs. Burton answered, none too amiably, since as a matter of fact amiability was not one of her ruling traits of character. “I have simply had a good time with my Sunrise Camp Fire girls, been as much of a friend to them as I have known how to be. And they have borne with my bad health and bad tempers with amazing sweetness and understanding. In truth, you realize, Betty, that this winter in the Adirondacks is not what I had hoped and planned for this winter. With all my heart I wished to go back to my stage work! I had discovered a wonderful new play and was intending to begin rehearsals as soon as I reached New York. Then this abominable illness of mine returned while we were in Ireland. I took a severe cold over there amid the Irish mists. So between my husband and Aunt Patricia Lord and half a dozen doctors, no choice was left me. The Camp Fire girls are here in the mountains with me for my consolation more than for their pleasure, I am afraid. We will have a shut-in winter together in this fairy land. I sometimes wonder what may happen to us after a time when the snows begin and this place is a great ice palace. But surely it is too lovely for me to complain! Look, dear, the evening star is just going down beyond the farthest hill:

“Thou fair-haired Angel of the Evening,

Now while the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of love—thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And the lion glares through the dun forest.

The fleeces of our flock are covered with

Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.”

Then was a brief silence; the woods were still at the moment, the two friends speechless and there was only the light lapping of the waters against the shore.

“Polly O’Neill Burton, long ago I was told that Sara Bernhardt could make men and women shed tears simply by reciting the multiplication table or the alphabet. I believe you can accomplish the self-same result. I presume that you feel you have grown stale with these years of abandoning your art, yet I sincerely believe that when you return to the stage you will be the greater artist. No human being with your temperament, Polly, can have passed through the emotional experiences of the years in Europe and not be inspired by them. I am sorry for your present disappointment, sorry you must wait another year to produce the new play, yet when the time arrives I shall be prouder of you than ever!”

“You are a dear, Betty. I hope you are a prophet as well, because sometimes I am afraid that my day as an artist is past. One so quickly is forgotten and I have been away from my audiences for so long a time. However, I don’t intend to be dismal. I am not permitted to be, as a matter of fact, by Aunt Patricia. At the mildest protest on my part, she is unmerciful; I suppose that is why I do my complaining to you, Betty. Was there ever such a character as Aunt Patricia? I believe she grows fiercer in manner and kinder in heart with each passing year. Her reconstruction work in France was so remarkable that the French government wished to present her with a medal of honor, which Aunt Patricia was about to refuse with scant courtesy when I induced her to allow me to write the letter of thanks at the time she declined the offer. There are moments when she is so autocratic I feel I must rebel and yet I am utterly devoted to her and under eternal obligations.”

“So are we all, Polly, since she saved your life in France and may be saving it again with her care of you this winter. So don’t behave like an unruly child. You do manage to keep absurdly young, Polly. Molly, your own twin sister, and I have confessed to each other that we feel ten years your senior. Is it because you are a genius or because you have remained the guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls and been with girls so much that you continue one of them?”

“I decline to answer. Remember, Betty, it was you and not I who captured the young poet’s attention this evening. I wonder if he is to be our nearest neighbor during the winter? I trust not, for I believe he would be of small service should we get into a difficulty. We are more apt to be forced to look after him. By the way, Betty, I am glad the William Blake poem did not invoke a shiver in you. It struck me that the suggestion of the wolf raging wide through the dun forest was unpleasantly suggestive, although we are assured that the wolf has vanished from the Adirondack Mountains as surely as the Indian braves and that only their ghosts haunt their beloved woods.”

Again for a few moments there was a renewed silence, the two friends of many years with their arms entwined about each other continuing to walk up and down contemplating the exquisite landscape under the approaching shadow of the night.

Nearly of the same height, Polly O’Neill Burton, who in social life was Mrs. Richard Burton, was far slenderer than her companion, giving her an effect of greater youth.

Betty Graham, who had been Betty Ashton in former days, had grown from a pretty girl into a rarely beautiful and charming woman, distinguished for her grace of manner and social gifts. She was more beautiful than her friend. Even as a girl Polly O’Neill had never been beautiful in any conventional fashion. Her face was long, her features slightly irregular, with a broad, low brow and delicate, pointed chin. She had a wealth of dusky black hair and amazing blue eyes of swiftly changing color and expression and a wide, mobile mouth.

Once long ago Betty Ashton had said: “One never is aware of the fact that Polly possesses any other features than her eyes and mouth. Her eyes always hold your attention until she begins to speak and then the movement of her lips, the haunting quality of her voice absorb one.”

To-night the figure which moved beside her seemed to be thinner and frailer than at any time since her marriage.

Trying Miss Patricia might be upon occasions, yet at present Betty Graham could only rejoice at the thought of her constant vigilance. Equally devoted she and the Camp Fire girls might be, yet they possessed neither the wisdom nor the authority of Miss Patricia. She remembered that although pliable in small matters, in any question of her art Polly O’Neill had been singularly obstinate. Had she not in her girlhood disappeared from her family and friends and in defiance of their wish devoted herself to her career?

At present would she remain shut up in the winter woods with the new play waiting to be produced and New York City only a few hours away?

“Why don’t you study your new part, Polly, while you are growing stronger? Would it not help to keep you amused?”

Mrs. Burton shook her head.

“No, only make the waiting more trying. I have promised my husband and Aunt Patricia to devote this winter to my health. I shall keep my word, but beyond this winter I have made no promise. Betty, did you hear a strange sound? I am very nervous to-night and seem often to hear voices in the wind and murmurings as if all the fairy folk were whispering together. No, I am not mad; remember, Betty, how nearly I came to being born in Ireland, where not to believe in fairies is to forswear one’s birthplace. Besides, I often try to reproduce the sounds I hear in nature. It is a great training for one’s voice. And this aids one in acting. Suppose we go back now to the cabin. I want to see that my Camp Fire girls are ready for bed. A narrow escape from a tragedy this afternoon and yet Mary Gilchrist, Gill I prefer calling her, is usually the most sensible one of us. One’s guardian angel seems to take a holiday now and then, and yet Gill’s saved her in the end. Good gracious, here comes Aunt Patricia! I vainly hoped she would not discover that we were out of doors.”

Through the darkness a tall, severe figure could be seen moving with long, masculine strides.

“Polly O’Neill, is this the fashion in which you endeavor to regain your health? I presume you go out into the night air because you know it is so particularly bad for you and in order to give additional trouble to the people who are compelled to care for you?”

“It is a warm, clear night, Aunt Patricia. Besides, no one, as you say, is compelled to care for me. When I am so ill as to be especially troublesome I can send for a nurse. Betty and I were just going indoors.”

“Humph!” Miss Patricia grunted in a tone of doubt.

Mrs. Graham laughed, slipping her arm affectionately through that of Miss Patricia.

“We really were coming indoors. But look here, Aunt Patricia, if Polly and the Camp Fire girls object to being treated as if they were young and in need of advice and sometimes of discipline, while I am with you, suppose you devote yourself to me. It would be delightful to be treated as if I were a girl again, instead of the mother of a grown-up son and daughter.”

“You have a lovable nature, Betty Graham, which I think your daughter, Bettina, has in a measure inherited. Polly O’Neill Burton, I regret being forced to speak of it, is a spoiled and ungrateful woman.”

Mrs. Burton, who had been walking a few feet apart from her companions, now flushed and laughed. Catching up, she slipped her hand through Miss Patricia’s free arm, resting her head for an instant against the angular shoulder.

“I may be the one, but you know I am not the other, Miss Patricia Lord! Besides, I am as ashamed of you as I am of myself for being in such a bad temper.

“Look at our cabin how beautiful it is! Let us ask Tahawus, the great cloud, to keep us under his shelter for the night. I hope the Camp Fire girls are safe in bed. Sometimes, Betty, I could wish that none of them need ever grow older.”

“A wish in which they would scarcely concur, Polly. One wants the life adventure whatever it may be. Besides, our Camp Fire builds for the future as well as for the present.”

Having reached the veranda, Bettina Graham, hearing the voices outside, came to open the front door; wearing a heavy blue flannel wrapper over her blue pajamas, her bare feet were thrust into blue slippers and around her small head her hair was closely bound in yellow braids.

“I have been waiting to say good-night. Of course I realized that any truants would be you and Tante, mother.”

“Bettina,” her mother replied irrelevantly, “you should have been called Diana; your own name has never suited you in the least and it was absurd that you should have been named for me when you are so unlike me. Since I have been watching you here in these woods——”

Bettina and Mrs. Burton laughed and even Aunt Patricia smiled grimly.

“Is it my present costume which recalls the famous huntress, mother, or is it that the woods are making you romantic? Please remember that I do not enjoy being reminded that I am wholly unlike my beautiful mother. I too have wished for auburn hair—wine colored our young poet called it to-night, did he not?—and eyes like——?”

“Go to bed, Bettina. There is nothing of the goddess about you in manner or behavior at this moment.”

Mrs. Graham’s tone was half amused and half annoyed.

“Nevertheless, you will receive the poems in the morning. Gill and I really rescued the poet and deserve the attention,” Bettina answered, as she ran away to bed, tall and slim, with a peculiar grace of movement which ever had been characteristic of her.

CHAPTER IV
The Hermit

In the return of the Camp Fire girls to their own country there was one of the girls who was unreservedly glad. Not one word of regret, not an instant of repining for foreign lands, or scenes or friends, and this girl was Sally Ashton, notwithstanding the fact that Sally actually had been through more entertaining experiences than the other girls. However, these experiences had made but slight spiritual impression upon her, for Sally was a matter-of-fact and not an emotional person. She had nursed Lieutenant Fleury under curious circumstances in the story called “The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor”, but neither then nor afterwards had the young French lieutenant’s gratitude and affection for her wakened more than a friendly response. The same result followed her acquaintance with the young Englishman in “The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England.” Calmly Sally had announced in both instances that her own affection was indissolubly bound up with her own country and that her one desire was to return to the United States and to spend the rest of her life there.

At present living with the Camp Fire girls in their cabin in the Adirondacks, Sally had become her placid and contented self. The war was over and she need not reflect upon the past, since it was of no avail to make herself unhappy with old memories.

Moreover, although not particularly fond of the mountains, Sally preferred living in the country to the town and was now particularly pleased with their household arrangements.

The camp in which they were planning to spend the winter was a more expensive mode of living than the Camp Fire girls appreciated and was possible only because of Miss Patricia Lord. Upon Captain and Mrs. Burton’s small estate, the last few years in Europe had made serious inroads. Indeed, one of the reasons for Mrs. Burton’s desire to return to her stage career was in order to increase their fortune. Her husband, Captain Richard Burton, was a number of years her senior and although an actor at the time of their marriage had no desire to continue his former profession. In the past years of Red Cross work he had lost interest and was out of touch with his old life and at present was continuing his Red Cross work, holding a position at a small salary in Washington.

None of these details of other lives disturbed Sally Ashton. She was merely aware that their new camp was beautiful and comfortable and that she had the right to look forward to a long and peaceful winter. She and her sister, Alice, had spent a few months with their mother and father near Boston in the interval of their return from England and their arrival in the Adirondacks and were expecting their mother and father as guests at Christmas. Indeed, there were plans for a Christmas house party which would tax the capacity of the big cabin.

Ordinarily the Camp Fire work was divided so that the girls were allowed to devote their energies to the tasks they preferred, and as Sally was more domestic in her tastes than any member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group, she was frequently allowed first choice.

At present she had elected to have charge of the big living-room of the cabin and at this moment was engaged in putting it in order.

She looked extremely young and pretty in her big blue apron which she wore over a brown serge frock, the girls having concluded to lay aside their khaki costumes, except on ceremonial occasions, because of the cold. Her brown hair, parted a little at one side, was brushed smoothly down across her forehead and into a large soft coil at the back of her head. Over it she wore a net, but little tendrils of curling brown hair showed on her temples and throat. Sally’s skin, ordinarily of a clear, warm pallor, was at present at its loveliest because she was especially happy and well. To Sally happiness meant peace and contentment rather than intensity of emotion or the constant movement of events.

She leaned down now to thrust some white birch sticks under the great log that smouldered at the back of the mammoth fireplace. Behind the cabin the winter fire logs were piled so high as to suggest an old time pioneer fortification prepared against an attack by the Indians.

Then when Sally arose she glanced about the big room.

The floors were covered with thick, brightly colored rugs for warmth and cheerfulness. Until the advent of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls, the room had been conspicuously a man’s room. As a matter of fact, Tahawus cabin had been erected to serve as a clubhouse for a group of wealthy men who wished to enjoy the winter sports. But losing interest, Miss Patricia Lord had been able to rent it for the year.

In the center of the room stood a long, heavy oak table sufficiently large for any number of books, magazines and newspapers. The chairs were upholstered in brown leather, while upon the stained walls were several fine paintings of scenes in the Adirondacks. The sofa was long enough for two of the Camp Fire girls to find repose at the same time. Above the mantel was a magnificent elk’s head.

As a man’s club room, the room may have been appropriate, but for their purpose the Camp Fire girls and their guardian found it unsympathetic. The changes they had made were not important, and yet its entire character had altered.

On the mantel were the Camp Fire candlesticks holding the three Camp Fire candles and Indian baskets and jars filled with autumn leaves, bright red berries and branches of bayberry.

To-day on the center table was a big bowl of golden roses sent to Mrs. Burton by an admirer of her work who but recently had learned of her return to the United States. There was a basket of brightly colored wool, the property of Mrs. Graham, who rashly had promised to knit each member of the Camp Fire a new sweater before the winter was over.

On a smaller table was Sally’s own basket of silk. Notwithstanding the amusement of the other girls, she had begun to piece together an old-fashioned octagonal quilt, following a pattern of half a century before.

Indeed, there were many feminine evidences about the room, some of them too subtle to be recognized immediately.

Satisfied with her scrutiny, Sally seated herself in a large chair before the fire.

Breakfast had been over for an hour or more and the big cabin was almost empty. Miss Patricia Lord was outdoors giving orders to the man who came in the mornings and afternoons to look after the furnace and do whatever work it was impossible for the girls to accomplish. Mrs. Burton was in her own room writing letters or resting. Mrs. Graham, Bettina and Marguerite Arnot had driven over to Saranac, several miles away, to do some important shopping. The other girls were studying in one of the smaller cabins. It was one of the rules for the winter that each member of the Sunrise Camp Fire club should devote three hours a day to some kind of fairly serious study save on holidays.

Sally personally felt that she should follow their righteous example and yet at the present moment could scarcely make up her mind to be so virtuous.

Slipping a box from her pocket, she placed a chocolate between her small white teeth. The box had come through the mail the other day with a note from Dan Webster, her old childhood friend. In Paris he had suggested that she should come home before her other friends. He now expressed himself as pleased at her return. The letter struck Sally as not so enthusiastic as she had the right to expect. Dan Webster always had been her especial friend since they were children. However, he was busy, having recently taken full charge of his father’s farm in New Hampshire, so Sally presumed he was too absorbed to give much thought to her.

Hearing a sound outside in the hall, she got up and went to the open door. The hall was nearly half the size of the living-room with a second large fireplace. Mary Gilchrist had just come in from the outdoors.

“Why, Gill, I thought you were out for an early morning walk! I heard Bettina say we were not to expect you at breakfast as you had made yourself a cup of coffee and some toast and would not return until we had finished. How white you look! Are you worrying over what almost happened yesterday? Gill, it bores me so to have people worry over the tragedies or the misfortunes that do not occur. Alice says that is because I have a practical and unemotional nature. Perhaps that is true, I do not know; it only seems to me a waste of time and energy. Elce was not hurt yesterday, not seriously. She slept perfectly and says her arm is not painful. Yet you look as if you were seriously ill.”

Mary Gilchrist, who was sometimes called Gill and sometimes Mary by the other Camp Fire girls, smiled at Sally’s matter-of-fact manner.

“You are a comfortable person, Sally, and usually I agree with what you have just said and try to follow your illustrious example. Only at present I feel as if I ought to do some kind of penance for my fault. I came to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Burton, and to ask her if she feels I have forfeited my right to be a member of her Camp Fire group.”

Smiling, Sally shook her head.

“Oh, you need not trouble over any criticism from Tante! Only on the most unexpected occasions is she ever stern and I am sure she will appreciate that you were sufficiently frightened not to be so reckless a second time. By the way, I must tell you something amusing in order to cheer you.

“Early this morning as I was coming to breakfast I heard some one at the front door. Opening it I discovered the youth you and Bettina rescued yesterday. He was wearing a bright scarlet tam-o-shanter and a velvet coat and had a crimson scarf about his neck, and really looked rather handsome. I met him at dinner yesterday evening, but he was not in the least concerned in speaking to me and made no pretence of recognizing me. At once he demanded Mrs. Graham. When Aunt Betty came out into the hall he thrust a leather case into her hands and asked her to read his collection of unpublished poems.

“Aunt Betty was of course very sweet and gracious about it, but I heard her moaning over the fact afterwards that actually there are fifty poems. Bettina counted. She and Tante were laughing over the fact after breakfast, since Aunt Betty insists she detests poetry and has scarcely read a line of it in years. However, the poet appeared to think she would be delighted with the opportunity!”

Mary Gilchrist frowned.

“Oh, I wish the poet and his poetry might vanish together. In fact, if I knew where Mrs. Graham had placed the masterpieces I should like to light a blaze with them. It is absurd of me, Sally, but I took a dislike to the youth and afterwards my own behavior made me dislike him the more, as though he were partly responsible. But do go for a walk, Sally, you love the indoors as much as I do the open country. It is a wonderful morning and will do you lots of good.”

Half an hour later, slightly against her will, as she preferred the open fire and her sewing, Sally Ashton and the little Lancashire girl started for a walk together. Mrs. Burton had sent word that Chitty was in need of amusement and Sally had volunteered her services.

Now like children they danced through the pine woods behind the camp, sometimes walking sedately, at others running a few steps, frightening the squirrels and chipmunks, who came out and seated themselves on the upper branches of the trees to chatter and scold.

“You do not appear in the least uncomfortable from your injury yesterday,” Sally remarked, after protesting that they walk more quietly. “Nevertheless, suppose we sit down and rest for a few moments. I am not a gypsy, although I remember you once said that you would like to be one.”

The younger girl, who was a daughter of an English miner, sat down on a bed of pine needles facing Sally, who preferred the trunk of a riven tree.

“Yes, I used to talk of wishing to be a gypsy, but that was before I went to Ireland with my father and we attempted to live like gypsies. Then we used to go about through the villages, where I had to sing in the streets for pennies in the wind and rain and cold. Sometimes we slept indoors but more often in stables and lofts, until I was often too weary to sing. Then my father grew tired of the wandering life and wished to return to the army. Now I think what I wished was to live in a forest like this and always to be happy and free.”

Sally’s brown eyes were slightly puzzled. The little girl’s nature was an enigma to her, as it was to most persons. Freedom seemed Chitty’s one dream, and yet she could scarcely have known what the great word signified even for her own small, individual life.

“Suppose you sing for me if you feel well enough, Chitty. I have not heard you for a long time, you only sing when you are out of doors unless some one urges you. I am sleepy, so you can feel as if you were almost entirely alone.”

Sally lifted up her head to watch a gleam of golden sunlight slant through the exquisite cool darkness of the pine branches and to see the long, delicate fingers of the pines tremble in the light winds.

Then suddenly her eyes dropped toward her lap.

If she were not musical, if she were not emotional, if she cared little for the outdoors and more for the sheltered places and life’s serenities, yet the little Lancashire girl’s gift set even her pulses stirring.

Scarcely a proper definition to call the variety of sounds which Chitty poured forth with the ease and unconsciousness of a mocking-bird, singing. There were trills, gay and high and poignant, then a low note like a sob, then light ripples like wind blowing over the water, then bold, straightforward whistles, or the plaintive notes of a wood dove.

Never had the effect been more magical to Sally’s ears.

Then suddenly, without being aware of any particular reason, she turned her eyes and glanced in another direction.

Seated not many yards away and directly facing her was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. The man was so nearly the color of the bark of the tree that he might have been carved out of wood. His hair and skin were a coppery brown, he had a short beard of the same shade and eyes that were only slightly more brown. He did not look very old, although his clothes were old and shabby. He wore a leather coat and knee breeches and was without a hat. Listening with absolute intensity to Chitty’s music, he seemed scarcely aware of their existence.

When she ceased, he got up and Sally saw that he apparently wished to speak to them, and yet could not make up his mind to alarm them.

As a matter of fact, Sally was not in the least frightened.

CHAPTER V
A Conversation and a Loss

“I have not spoken to any human being in more than a month,” the stranger said in dull, even tones as if he were deaf.

“Why?” Sally Ashton inquired in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. “There are many people who come to the Adirondack forests and there are towns and villages and cities not many miles away. You must choose not to speak to anyone. Are you a hermit?”

The man answered slowly:

“I call myself a hunter and a woodsman. My cabin is a good many miles from any road and in the summer when the mountains are filled with tourists I remain near my own place. But now that the winter is approaching and the woods beginning to be deserted save by those of us who live here I roam about in search of food and change of scene.”

“Have you always lived here?” Sally demanded with her accustomed bluntness. “Otherwise you must be in hiding because of some trouble or secret you wish to conceal.”

For a moment the man stared in silence, either angry or amazed.

“I have not lived here always,” he replied evasively, “but there are men in these woods who have been here since boyhood. One day you may meet a backwoodsman who is a great preacher here in God’s tabernacle of the outdoors. You have not told me why I find you in the forest when the autumn days are passing?”

Sally shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, I am afraid you will not find this portion of your woods deserted for many months. With a number of other girls and some older friends we intend spending the winter in these hills. But good-day.”

Stretching forth her hand, Sally took hold of the younger girl’s, intending to walk back to their own cabin. If their new acquaintance did not alarm her, there was something in his manner which rendered her uncomfortable.

For a Moment the Man Stared In Silence

He was not glancing toward her at the present instant, but toward the little English girl.

“Who taught you to sing in that fashion?” he inquired. “But there, that was a stupid question! No one could have taught a child like you. You have a great gift and for a little while were able to make me forget what I have not forgotten in many years. Some day I may again be your uninvited audience. Good-by.”

Then the two girls stood watching the figure disappear into a denser portion of the woods, and Sally said with a little frown:

“Odd! At first I was under the impression that our new acquaintance was a backwoodsman, I mean a man without an education except a knowledge of the outdoors, but now I am uncertain. In fact, I am sure he was once a different character of person and came to the forest to escape some sorrow or wrong doing. However, as I hate mysteries I trust we shall not meet him again; probably we never shall.”

Since the encounter had really been of no importance and there were many other things on her mind, an hour later Sally had forgotten the occurrence. In truth, at the time it did not appear to her or to Chitty as of sufficient interest to mention to any member of the Camp Fire.

During the afternoon for several hours Sally remained in the study in the smaller cabin working at her French and writing a letter in French to a member of the first Camp Fire club established in the city of Paris. Then, at a quarter before four, she disappeared to her own room, where she made a quick toilet and came down to the big living-room in the main cabin.

From four to five o’clock was the pleasantest hour of the day. The habit of afternoon tea so firmly established during the summer in “Merrie England” was now continued under different conditions in the heart of the North woods.

Nearly all the members of the Sunrise Camp Fire who were together for the winter season, Sally found seated in a wide circle before the open fire.

Standing beside the tea wagon, which she had just rolled into the room, was her own sister, Alice Ashton, who had remained in France with Miss Patricia Lord and Vera Lagerloff to continue the reconstruction work after the other Camp Fire girls had crossed to England with their Camp Fire guardian.

Alice Ashton was a tall, serious girl with reddish hair and blue eyes, entirely unlike Sally in appearance and disposition.

Kneeling before the fire at this moment and toasting thin slices of bread to a beautiful brownness was Vera Lagerloff, who was an American girl notwithstanding her foreign name. This was due to the fact that her parents were Russians. Vera was born in the United States and was an American enthusiast.

Not far away seated in a low chair, a pile of lavender silk in her lap, was Marguerite Arnot, her dark head bent over her work. Older than the other Camp Fire girls by a year or more, Marguerite Arnot was actually a French girl who had been received as a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire under exceptional conditions. Brought into their household in “Glorious France” as Miss Patricia Lord’s protégée, later she had become one of their number. Her presence in the United States was due to the fact that she had yielded to Mrs. Burton’s and to Bettina Graham’s persuasion and had decided to make her home in America and to go on with her work. Of gentle breeding and education, Marguerite Arnot and her mother were dressmakers in Paris, until her mother’s death during the war had left the girl ill and alone. Not long after she had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Miss Patricia Lord.

At present Miss Patricia Lord was seated behind the rest of the group, reading a lengthy report she recently had received from France, concerning a home for war orphans that she was building in the neighborhood of one of the great French battlegrounds. Every now and then, however, her glance wandered from the paper in her hand to the figure of a younger woman, half seated and half reclining in a great chair near the tea table.

Mrs. Burton, the Camp Fire guardian, whose figure was more slender than a young girl’s, was wearing a heavy, red-corded silk tea gown; the firelight playing on her dusky hair, on her white face with the long delicate chin and high cheek bones.

Seated on a stool beside her, with her head resting in the palms of her hands, was the youngest member of the household, the small daughter of an English miner. Chitty’s hair was even blacker than Mrs. Burton’s, her skin darker and more sallow, and her eyes large, black and wistful. A peculiarity of the little girl was that she rarely ever talked unless a question were addressed to her directly, expressing herself chiefly through her music.

At a table with her back to the others, Mary Gilchrist, who recently had requested the Camp Fire girls to use her father’s name for her, Gill, rather than Mary, apparently was deeply engaged with a history of the North woods which she seemed to be reading. Ordinarily one of the gayest and most animated of the group of Camp Fire girls, since her reckless action the day before she had been uncommonly silent and subdued.

Bettina Graham and her mother had not yet entered the room and tea had not been served.

“Is that you, Sally dear? I have scarcely seen you all day. Tell me what you are thinking of while you stand there studying our Camp Fire circle.”

The other girls, attracted by Mrs. Burton’s speech, looked over toward Sally, who often was unexpectedly amusing.

Coming further into the room, Sally stood close beside the Camp Fire guardian’s chair.

“Do you want really to hear what I was thinking, Tante? I was considering the fact that our Sunrise Camp Fire at present was smaller in number than I ever have known it to be and that I am sorry. Yvonne Fleury has returned to live with her brother at the Château Yvonne, Gerry is married and she and Felix in California, and now Peggy is no longer with us. Naturally, as she is planning to marry after Christmas, she wishes to be with her mother and father. Well, thank goodness we shall have her for a visit at Christmas time!”

Sally’s reply was so unexpected that there was a short silence in the big room, broken only by the crackling of the wood fire.

The loss of Peggy Webster as a member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group was perhaps more keenly felt than that of any other girl.

The daughter of Mrs. Burton’s twin sister, Mollie O’Neill, who afterwards became Mrs. Daniel Webster, Peggy had been particularly devoted to her aunt and, as Mrs. Burton had no children of her own, was more like her own daughter. Moreover, Peggy and Bettina Graham, Sally and Alice Ashton had been intimate friends since they were tiny children, long before they had any acquaintance with the later members of their Camp Fire group. Peggy possessed a singularly vital personality and was generous, ardent and sweet.

“Sally, if you love me do not speak of Peggy’s absence or of her approaching marriage. She is too absurdly young! And yet I presume I must have given my consent as Peggy declared she would not marry without it, although she and Ralph Merritt already feel they have waited a long time. Sally, I feel as you do that our Camp Fire circle is becoming too small. Perhaps we shall grow too centered in one another and not so helpful as we wish to be. What would you suggest as a remedy?”

There was no immediate reply, the other girls as well as Sally Ashton pondering the question.

“Why, I presume we ought to invite other girls to join our Sunrise club,” Sally answered a moment later. And although her reply was neither original nor startling, it was received with unsympathetic silence.

“You have the most unfortunate fashion, Sally, of saying things other people would prefer not to hear,” Alice Ashton remarked with sisterly severeness. Then, before any one else had an opportunity to speak, the living-room door opened and Mrs. Graham and Bettina entered.

“Glad you have arrived at last, Betty, we have been waiting tea for you and Bettina. I was just about to send one of the girls to find out what had become of you. Vera has made a wonderful lot of toast and we don’t wish it to grow cold.”

“Sorry to have delayed you,” Mrs. Graham replied, “but the most extraordinary thing has occurred. I am glad to find all of you gathered together here at the same time. This morning the young fellow, Allen Drain, who had dinner with us, brought me a collection of his unpublished poems which he wished to have me read. They were in a black leather portfolio about a foot square. When I drove to Saranac this morning I left the portfolio on a small table in Bettina’s and my bedroom. Since my return Bettina and I have searched for more than an hour and can find no sign of it. Did you, Polly, or any of the girls take possession of it? I cannot believe Aunt Patricia would be interested. Some one of course must have moved it. I don’t mean to be cross, but I think I should have been told. Bettina and I have had an uncomfortable hour of searching. Yet, whoever loved the poems better than I shall be forgiven as soon as they are restored to me.”

There was no immediate reply, Mrs. Burton, Aunt Patricia and the girls glancing at one another, each expecting the other to plead guilty.

“Well, confess, please, won’t some one? I am sure the poet would be flattered if he learned what has occurred,” Mrs. Burton added. “I am sorry, Betty. You should have come at once and asked, rather than tired yourself by searching.”

“Never a sign of the poet’s manuscript have I beheld!” Alice Ashton returned.

“I am guiltless, Mrs. Graham, but why did you not let me know so that I might have helped you look?” Marguerite Arnot answered.

One by one each separate member of the little circle announced an utter lack of information with regard to the lost portfolio, save Mary Gilchrist, who had gone on with her reading after Bettina and her mother’s entrance into the living-room.

“Mary, I wonder if by any chance you noticed the manuscript of the poems in Mrs. Graham’s room when I asked you to find a magazine for me this morning?” Mrs. Burton inquired.

Mary Gilchrist glanced up from the pages of her book, flushing slightly.

“No, I don’t recall seeing the manuscript, but really I cannot appreciate why Mrs. Graham should be so concerned. I have an idea the poems were of no value; probably some one thought they were waste paper and they were thrown into the fire.”

“But, Gill, I don’t believe you understand the situation,” Bettina Graham remonstrated. “Whether or not the poems were of value they must represent years of work and thought to Mr. Drain. I have no doubt they mean more to him than we can well imagine. Besides, the poems were entrusted to mother’s keeping and it would be simply too dreadful if they could not be found!”

Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Mary Gilchrist resumed her reading, while Mrs. Graham sat down beside the Camp Fire guardian.

“Don’t trouble, Betty dear, I am distressed that you have been uneasy, but let’s have tea and then begin a more thorough search of the entire house. The manuscript of course is only tucked away somewhere out of sight and will soon be found. Poor young poet, nothing so tragic could have happened as that his verse should be lost!”

“You don’t suppose, Polly, that by any unlucky chance, if the portfolio is not discovered the boy has no copies of his verses? I scarcely dare face him unless the original manuscript which he gave to me this morning with such pride and pleasure, is restored. I cannot even face the idea that the effort of the boy’s lifetime may be destroyed.”

“Nonsense, mother, drink your tea and afterwards we will return to the search! Nothing else has disappeared save the manuscript, which would scarcely attract an ordinary thief.”

“Perhaps the poet himself returned mysteriously and bore off his own handiwork, unable to be so long without it,” Mary Gilchrist suggested. No one made a reply.

CHAPTER VI
“A Man for a’ That.”

Several days later Mary Gilchrist was again in the living-room in the early afternoon, but on this occasion she was alone.

At the piano in the corner of the room she was practising a number of new Camp Fire songs. During their shut-in winter in the mountains, music promised to be one of the principal relaxations, and, although not so good a pianist as Bettina Graham, Gill felt it her duty to regain a little of her lost skill, due to the failure to work at her music during the years spent abroad.

At present she was attempting a more ambitious effort, trying to capture and repeat the odd, musical notes that poured forth so spontaneously from the youngest of the Camp Fire girls. Meeting with scant success, she was so intent upon her effort that she was not aroused until the living room door opened and an unexpected guest entered.

As he did not glance in her direction, at the same instant Mary Gilchrist slipped from the piano stool and at once concealed herself behind a tall fire screen that had been placed near the wall. Her action was involuntary, since she scarcely had time for thought; nevertheless, once in her place of hiding, deliberately Gill made up her mind to remain where she was until she might escape without detection.

The visitor who had come into the living-room was Allan Drain.

They had not seen each other since their original meeting and Gill wished for no other. Not liking her present position, yet it appeared impossible to make her escape without being discovered and so obliged to speak with him alone.

Between a tiny opening in the screen she could behold a tall figure moving up and down before the fire, and afterwards quietly gazing into its depths. He looked older than she recalled and yet Gill felt that she disliked his appearance. The thin figure seemed theatrical and self-conscious and in a way effeminate, but then the type of youth she admired had great physical strength and courage, and Gill was convinced that the present unconscious actor was possessed of neither.

She was aroused from her reflections by a second opening of the door and the appearance of Mrs. Graham in the same room.

Dressed in a simple, dark blue serge, nevertheless she gave an effect of social elegance and grace. A remarkably pretty girl as Betty Ashton, as Mrs. Anthony Graham, the wife of a distinguished United States senator, her beauty and poise had increased with added years and opportunities.

Her abundant auburn hair had the lovely sheen which comes from careful attention, there were a few lines about her eyes, but except for these her skin was firm and clear with a bright rose color in her cheeks, her nose short and straight, her lips full and deeply curved.

Not able to catch her expression as she moved swiftly across the room and held out her hand to their guest, Gill was able to hear her first words and to wish that she had faced the situation in the beginning rather than place herself in her present position. No one in their household would be more vexed than Mrs. Graham to discover her in hiding.

Brought up by her father on their large wheat farm in the middle west, Mary Gilchrist had lived an outdoor life, and without a mother had been taught few of the social amenities. During the years abroad, her strength and endurance, her skill as a motorist, her somewhat boyish abilities had proved so useful that it had not occurred to Mary Gilchrist until her return to the United States that she was without the social knowledge and education that girls of her age and position should possess. Before her visit home, during the few weeks in New York City, she had been conscious of her own awkwardness, particularly appreciating the difference between her own manners and Bettina Graham’s. For this reason, as well as others, she was pleased over the Camp Fire’s choice of the Adirondack forest for their winter home. In a wide, free, outdoor atmosphere she would be once more at ease and undisturbed by her want of social knowledge.

Then, unexpectedly, Bettina’s mother, Mrs. Graham, had chosen to spend the winter with them and from the first moment of their introduction Gill had been able to understand why Bettina Graham had acquired a poise and graciousness no one of the other Sunrise Camp Fire girls possessed.

Moreover, what Bettina had in slight measure her mother possessed in fuller degree. Indeed, not alone to Mary Gilchrist’s untrained judgment, but among persons with the widest social acquaintance, Betty Graham was famous for her charm of manner and her gift for attracting men and women.

“I wrote to ask you to come to see me to-day for a special reason, Mr. Drain. But because I am sorrier than I can say I am going to explain to you at once and have the ordeal past. I shall not ask you to forgive me, only to appreciate my regret. Suppose we both sit down.”

Instinctively disliking Allan Drain, yet Mary Gilchrist realized that he also had a gracious and cultivated manner when he chose to employ it, as he did with Mrs. Graham. From her vantage point, Gill watched him draw a chair closer to the fire and wait until Mrs. Graham was seated, before seating himself near her.

“I cannot imagine why you should be asking my pardon for a mistake or a fault, but of course you know that I freely forgive you. The apology should come from me. I appreciated later that I ought not to have thrust my poor verses upon you to bore you and absorb your time when I knew you so slightly. The truth is I am lonely this winter and my scribbling means more to me than it warrants. My family are not in sympathy with my versifying or any of my views of life. There are no women among us, there is only my father, two older brothers and myself. They have worked very hard and are not prosperous and feel I ought to be grateful to my uncle for offering me the education they were not able to have.”

“Then it is all the more difficult for me to tell you, Mr. Drain, that the manuscripts of your poems which you entrusted to me have by some extraordinary chance vanished. I did not wish to tell you of this and so for days I have made inquiries and every member of our household has searched for the verses. Now I cannot conceive of what actually has become of them, and yet I am afraid I am beginning to lose hope of their being discovered. It is all the more mysterious because we have no maids, no one who could have thrown the papers away from sheer carelessness and then be unwilling to confess. Nevertheless, I do feel so guilty and responsible, for if I had locked the manuscript away instead of placing it on a small table in my bed-room along with some books and papers, this probably would not have occurred.”

Mrs. Graham leaned over and laid her hand lightly upon her companion’s.

“Do reproach me, please do not look so white and wretched. I know the loss of your verses means many days of your time. But if you will give me the privilege, in order to show you have in a measure forgiven me, I shall send for some one to come to you and do the typewriting for you a second time, or if you will permit Bettina to copy the poems, I am sure she will do her best.”

“But, Mrs. Graham, I have no other copies of my poems, except three or four which I have had the good luck to have published in second-class magazines. Two days before I brought my manuscript to you I got them all into shape and burned up and threw away the odd bits of paper upon which they had been written. The afternoon I met your daughter and her friends in the woods I had gone for a walk to celebrate the fact that my task was accomplished. As I was thinking more of my verses than the landmarks, I lost my way. But please, please don’t be so unhappy on my account. The fault was mine, not yours. I should not have troubled you. You’ll allow me to say good-by and come to see you another day. No use pretending, Mrs. Graham, that I am not a good deal cut up and that I don’t feel that fate has been pretty hard. You are sure that you have looked everywhere and that the manuscript has not merely been misplaced.”

“I’m afraid not. But really I don’t feel that I can accept the idea that your verses are lost forever. Surely you must recall some of them, or will find stray copies here and there!” There were tears in Mrs. Graham’s voice as well as in her eyes.