Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Vera’s Movement had been too Quick

THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT

BY

MARGARET VANDERCOOK

Author of “The Ranch Girls” Series,

“The Red Cross Girls” Series, etc.

ILLUSTRATED

PHILADELPHIA

THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1917, by

The John C. Winston Co.

STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

Eight Volumes

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 on the Edge of the Desert

The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Camp Fire Girls on the Edge of the Desert

CHAPTER I
Flower of Gold

The last flames of the camp fire were slowly dying. But, as the sun was sinking, the little space in the woods surrounding the fire was lit with the color of flame.

A girl sat there alone in her ceremonial camp fire dress. A band of bright gold braid bound her head. One could learn from the insignia on her costume that she was already a torch bearer. Above the orange and red of the flame was the touch of white in her emblem, portraying the ascending smoke. She was like a guardian spirit of the fire.

Perhaps she may have been dreaming or merely repeating something aloud to herself. For, seated on the ground, the girl was leaning forward with her chin resting in her hand, and, although her eyes were closed, a book lay open in her lap. Between the leaves of the book was a sheet of paper upon which some lines were written in lead pencil. Here and there a word was marked out and another inserted in its place.

Finally the camp fire girl, unclosing her eyes, picked up this paper and, after first glancing around to be sure that the trees and grass about her had no ears, read aloud in a low voice:

In the moon of the peach blossoms,

Towards the land of the setting sun,

Ghosts of old camp fires keep calling;

Camp fires whose race has been run.

I can see the sands of the desert;

I can hear strange desert cries;

And ever my thoughts go homing

To a tent under desert skies.

“Bettina,” a voice called.

And, like a flash, the girl in the camp fire dress, leaning over, dropped the paper with her poem upon it into the fire.

“Polly, I am here under our pine trees,” she called back.

Then, getting up, she stood with her back to the sun. She had yellow-brown hair which looked gold in this light, a slender figure and delicate features, and must have been about sixteen.

The girl who joined her was a complete contrast. Since they were in the woods together, one might have been thought a gypsy and the other, except for her dress, some Norse maiden who had stepped forth from Scandinavian mythology.

The younger girl was small and had dark hair falling to her shoulders. Her eyes were black and her color brilliant. She was wearing a short skirt, a red sweater and a black velvet tam o’shanter, while over her arm she carried a long gray cloak.

“How could you come out here alone, Bettina?” she demanded reproachfully, marching forward as soon as she appeared upon the scene and throwing the coat about the other girl’s shoulders.

“As soon as our Camp Fire girls had disappeared mother asked me what had become of you, and I have been looking for you ever since. It must have been an hour ago? What makes you such a goose?”

She spoke straightforwardly but without ill nature, so the older girl only laughed and shook her head.

“I am accustomed to being called a dreamer, Polly, cousin of mine, and a good many other things by my family, but not a goose. Still, I expect you are right.”

She put her arm across her cousin’s shoulder.

“When the girls were getting ready to go I slipped out here to the woods by myself. I was tired and wanted to be alone for a little while, but I should have told some one. Has Aunt Mollie worried about me? I built a fire, so I was not cold.”

Polly glanced back at the dying flames, as the two girls started for home.

“Your fire does not appear very warming,” she answered bluntly. “And mother was worrying. As you came to us, Bettina, because you were not well, naturally we feel responsible. But I suppose you were reading or writing, or else in the clouds. Funny why people in the clouds always wish to inhabit them alone. There ought to be room in the clouds for companions as well as in other places.”

The two girls were walking now arm in arm through a small pine woods in New Hampshire, just as another Polly and Betty had walked a good many years before. But these two girls—although their names were alike, and although they too were members of a Sunrise Hill Camp Fire Club—were utterly unlike the former ones in temperament and experience.

Bettina was the daughter of Betty Ashton and Anthony Graham. After her father had served his state as Governor for two terms, he had been sent as United States senator to Washington, where the family had since been living, coming back home to New Hampshire only for occasional summer vacations.

Yet now it was April and Bettina was on her way to the old Webster farmhouse which stood, as it always had, not far from the first Sunrise Hill Camp.

In reality she and Polly Webster were not cousins, since Polly was Mollie O’Neill’s oldest child and named for her famous aunt; but the friendship between the mothers and the families was so great that it had passed into an intimacy closer in this world many times than the intimacies of relationship. For since Polly O’Neill, who was now Mrs. Richard Burton, traveled a great part of the year, because of her own and her husband’s profession, and because of her fondness for Europe, Mollie and Betty, now Mrs. Webster and Mrs. Graham, had grown to depend more on each other than in their girlhood days. So, when the spring came, and Bettina was not well in Washington, she had been sent at once to Mollie Webster’s home and Mollie’s care.

The girls walked quickly, as it was nearly dusk; Polly with the ease and swiftness of a girl who had been brought up in the country, and Bettina nearly as easily, yet with a different kind of grace. For there are persons who seem to be able to move with almost no effort, and their shy fleetness is characteristic of certain temperaments. In almost all cases you will find it among persons who have deep emotions but strange reserves.

Bettina Graham talked very little and perhaps this alone made her unusual among girls.

After a few further moments of silence on her part, Polly glanced up at her.

“It is curious, Bettina, that no one of your names suits you. You were called Bettina and ‘Little Princess’ when you were a tiny girl and now you are taller than your mother or any of us. ‘Tall Princess’ would be a better title at present. Even your Camp Fire name is too difficult to say—‘Anacaona,’ Flower of Gold—though I suppose the meaning is charming. But I am too matter-of-fact a person to like anything so fanciful.”

An elusive sense of humor may sometimes hide behind reserve, which served Bettina now and then not to take Polly too seriously.

“I am afraid nothing altogether suits about me,” she returned, smiling, however, and not speaking as if she were sorry for herself. “At least, I fear that is what my mother sometimes thinks, although she is good enough to try to conceal the fact. I am a disappointment to her. Here I am nearly sixteen and supposed to come out in society in another two or three years—and with a mother who is almost the most popular woman in Washington. Yet I hate even to appear at one of our own small tea parties. I never can think of a single thing to say to strangers. The truth is, Polly, one of the reasons I was not well this spring was because mother wished me to help her entertain more and I dreaded it. It is such peace to be here in these quiet woods.”

Then both girls paused for a moment.

The woods were no longer still.

Some one was walking toward them—a young fellow who kept striking at the trees and shrubs with a small stick he held in his hand. He was singing in a charming tenor voice, but stopped, took off his hat and bowed almost too gracefully to the two girls.

“Hello!” Polly said, indifferent but friendly enough.

Bettina scarcely moved her head. She flushed a little though as the young man passed, but did not speak until he was out of sight.

“I wish I might have had my visit without any other guest. I don’t like Ralph Marshall.” And then, “but please do tell me at once, Polly. I have been realizing ever since you joined me that you had more news. All day I have been feeling it in the atmosphere. You have had another letter.”

Nodding, Polly slipped her hand into her pocket.

“You do know about things, Bettina, before they happen. It is what everybody says about you, but please don’t guess about my future, I prefer not knowing till the time comes.”

She took out the letter and her eyes were brilliant.

“Yes, Tante has written again; the letter is addressed to me, but is for both of us. She says we are to talk over her plan to our families at once and that of course they will disapprove as they always have disapproved of everything she has ever suggested or done. But, just the same, we are to make them agree finally. She says we must—even if she has to come home and then go from here to Washington to argue the question.”

“It is too like what one has dreamed of to come true,” Bettina began, and then stopped because Polly had taken her by both shoulders and was shaking her.

“The things that Tante plans always come true, no matter how everybody else opposes them. That is one of the blessed facts about her. Ever since I can remember she had been more than a fairy godmother to us.” And Polly’s face showed that there was one person in the world about whom she was not matter-of-fact. Indeed, no one understood—not even Polly herself how much hero worship she felt for her mother’s famous sister.

But they were nearly at home. Lights were shining through the windows of the living room at the big farm, and on the veranda two persons were waiting.

“Let us not speak of the plan until after tea,” Polly whispered, as her father and mother walked forward to meet them.

Polly slipped her hand in her father’s and they went swinging along hand in hand back to the house.

Mrs. Webster walked more slowly with Bettina keeping beside her. She was still unchanged from our Mollie O’Neill, except that there were a few gray hairs which had come when her children were ill. She was plump, of course, but then soon after her marriage Mollie had settled down to the serenities of life, and they had kept her eyes as blue and her skin as soft and rose-colored as ever.

She enjoyed being solicitous about some one’s health and at present was much concerned about Bettina’s. But she was more concerned later because, when supper time arrived, one of her sons had not come in. And this was Billy Webster, who was not in the least like his father—the Billy Webster of other days. This Billy was always in the habit of doing all the things he should not, and Dan, all the things he should. And Mollie might have remembered that this difference in her twin sons was not unlike her own and her sister’s behavior in other days. But they had had no father to guide them and her husband was strict with his sons.

Ralph Marshall—the other visitor at the farm whom the girls had passed in the woods—was having dinner with other friends, and for this Bettina at least was grateful.

Yet the meal was not so agreeable as usual. Bettina and Polly were too silent and too absorbed, Mrs. Webster was plainly nervous and Dan, who was like her in almost every way, shared her emotion.

“It would not be a propitious evening for persuading her father to see things as she wished him to,” Polly thought. But Billy was always the family difficulty.

Half an hour later he had not yet appeared in the library. Neither had Polly or Bettina broached the subject on both their minds, although Polly sat on the arm of her father’s chair reading the same book with him.

Better than any one, she understood her father. He would not show anxiety; but until Billy came in he would not be able to give his attention to anything else, and his reading was only a pretense.

Then, just a few moments after half-past eight, there was an unexpected noise along the drive leading up to the front door.

Polly reached the window first. She could see the lights of an approaching automobile which, a moment later, stopped at the foot of their steps.

To her amazement her small brother, who had been at home but a few hours before, stepped out of the car with a suitcase in his hand. The next instant some one following ran in ahead of Billy.

Polly reached the front door in time to open it for their visitor; but, by this time the family was in the hall, and the figure swept by Polly to throw her arms about her mother’s neck.

“Mollie O’Neill, are you glad to see me? I have just traveled hundreds of miles until I am nearly dead. Yes, I know I ought to have telegraphed, but I’ve something I want to talk to you about and I did not want you to know I was coming. You might have tried to stop me, Richard did try.”

Then she stopped embracing Mrs. Webster and kissed Polly and Bettina and Dan and Mr. Webster—all as gaily and quickly as possible.

Of course it was Polly O’Neill—Mrs. Richard Burton—for no one else had such a fashion of turning up at unexpected moments.

“But, Tante, we have not even mentioned your scheme—your letter only arrived today,” Polly Webster said aloud.

Mrs. Webster shook her head and laughed at the same time.

“Of course you want to do something impossible, Polly O’Neill Burton, but I am glad to see you for any reason. It has been two years since you were here. Where did you find my Billy?”

A boy of about fourteen, small for his age and with fair hair and blue eyes, had by this time slipped quietly in and put down the suitcase. He had spoken to no one.

“Where did I find Billy?” Polly was moving toward the big living room. “I found him because he and I are birds of a feather, which means we know where to look for each other.”

CHAPTER II
Dream Places

“It isn’t so impracticable as you think, Mr. William Webster,” said Polly O’Neill Burton from the depth of a big camp chair.

It was a warm April afternoon and tea was being served out under the elms not far from the Webster house. Mollie Webster sat before a big wicker table covered with the Webster tea service and china over a hundred years old.

Dan Webster, who was a big, dark-haired fellow with blue eyes and his mother’s sweet nature, was carrying about teacups. He was followed by Ralph Marshall, who was spending a spring vacation from college at the Webster farm, and was now making himself useful by serving the hot muffins and cakes.

Billy Webster sat apart from the others reading, while Bettina and Polly were on either side of Mrs. Burton’s camp chair; and Mr. Webster stood upright, smiling down on its occupant.

“When was there anything that Polly O’Neill wanted from her girlhood up that wasn’t practical according to her view?” he demanded.

The Polly in the camp chair reached up and took hold of his hand.

“Do sit down, William, I suppose I must call you by that bugbear of a name, since we have another Billy and are getting so hopelessly old. We shall have to find another name for Polly as well, now that we are going to be together for a long time.” And having persuaded her brother-in-law to sit down beside her, the older Polly pulled one of the younger’s curls, “Why not Peggy, ‘Peg o’ My Heart,’ after the charming play? But see here, William, I have persuaded my husband to come around to my way of thinking, and he is not an easy person to manage.

“Although she won’t confess it, Mollie is half persuaded; and when I can lead you to the light, then I must see Betty and Anthony. But, seriously, why not? It will be a wonderful experience for the girls and one we shall never forget in this life and perhaps in another. I have to spend a year outdoors. For that length of time I am not to be allowed to act for a single night. Richard must, of course, go on with his engagements. Now I never am able to see my family or my friends when I am working and I regret it a great deal more than any of you realize.

“Instead of being sent off somewhere with my maid to a horrid hotel, where I shall probably die of the blues and the lonesomes, as I did once years ago before Bobbin and Richard rescued me, why won’t all of you or some of you come and camp in the desert with me?”

Polly’s cheeks were glowing with two bright spots of color and her eyes darkening as they always did in moments of excitement or pleading. She had forgotten the sofa pillows back of her, upon which she was supposed to recline, like an invalid, and had raised herself upright in her chair with one foot twisted up under her.

Mrs. Richard Burton was still as slender as Polly O’Neill had been, but, unlike Mollie, her black hair had no gray in it. Her years of work and success had kept her extraordinarily young; but then she had that vivid quality which keeps people from ever growing old. She was not beautiful and never had been, even as a girl; yet her face was extraordinarily fascinating and her voice had an almost magic quality in it, which had come from her long years of training as an actress.

Everybody watched her now, as they always did whenever she talked.

“I’ll come with pleasure, Mrs. Burton,” Ralph Marshall answered, walking over toward her chair with his offerings from the tea table.

Looking at him in a friendly but half critical fashion, she shook her head. Her sister had explained that Ralph was a college student and the son of one of the richest men in the state, who was also a friend of her husband’s and of Senator Graham’s.

“Sorry, but this is a Camp Fire girls’ expedition and no male persons are allowed except relatives,” Mrs. Burton returned good-naturedly.

Then, moving her head in order to speak to her sister, she observed Ralph drop a small piece of paper into Bettina’s lap. Also she saw Bettina flush as her hand closed quickly over it.

“You know, Mollie, years ago when we started our Sunrise Camp Fire club we began to wish then that we might live outdoors some day in a climate where it would be possible the whole year through. Well, it has taken half a lifetime to accomplish, but the idea is practical now. And even if we have become somewhat elderly Camp Fire girls, your Polly and Bettina’s Betty are not. Then I want to ask some other girls—Dick and Esther’s two daughters—enough to form another Sunrise Hill club.”

“But it is the most extravagant project I ever heard of in my life, Polly,” Mrs. Webster remonstrated. “I suppose you haven’t the shadow of an idea what it may cost to have a dozen young persons living with you in a tent in Arizona, or half a dozen tents. It all sounds too hot and terrifying to me for anything. Please do forget all about it, my dear, or we shall all be so uncomfortable,” she ended plaintively, as if there were no escape had her twin sister made up her mind.

The others laughed.

“But you are not to come with us, Mollie, if you don’t like the idea, and perhaps you would be frightened. Once years ago, I spent a night alone near the desert and I have never forgotten the wonder of it. But you will let me have Polly with me for the summer at least, and perhaps the boys. The children have never been away from New England and it will be a part of their education to see this western country of ours.”

At a short distance from the family group Billy Webster had suddenly ceased reading. He was white and delicate looking for a country boy.

“Under no circumstances can the boys go with you, Polly,” Mr. Webster said positively.

And Polly Webster, although appreciating her own selfishness, gave a sigh of relief. This speech of her father’s gratified the desire of her own heart, since it meant that she was to be allowed to go.

But the older Polly seemed not to have heard.

“Yes, I do know in a way what it will cost,” she argued. “At least, Richard says I can perfectly afford it and he looks after the money we both earn. Besides, Mollie dear, as I have no children of my own, I don’t see why I can’t do for yours and a few others now and then.”

And Mollie, at the moment, said nothing more, for Polly’s one baby had died a few years before.

“I have written to Esther in Boston that I want her two daughters, and I am going to Washington to see Betty as soon as I am strong enough.”

Then she turned to Bettina. Since the beginning of their conversation Bettina had not spoken. Polly scarcely remembered her making a dozen speeches since her arrival, unless they were answers to questions. As she had been talking all her life whenever there was the least opportunity, Polly Burton feared that she was not going to be able to understand Bettina. Then Betty had written such odd letters about her only daughter, as if she herself did not altogether understand her.

But Betty’s letters had placed Bettina on a kind of pedestal, suggesting that she lived in a finer, purer atmosphere than other girls. Mrs. Burton was not so sure. At this moment she did not like the fashion in which Bettina had received a mysterious note from Ralph Marshall. It looked secretive. And Bettina was still flushed and embarrassed.

Polly felt a sudden qualm. After all, she knew little about girls, and if anything happened to Betty’s or Mollie’s daughter while under her care, would she not always feel responsible?

Bettina at this instant suddenly jumped up, her face growing warm and lovely as she started running across the grass lawn like a graceful child.

The next moment, forgetting her years and everything else, Mrs. Burton fled after her.

For they had both discovered almost simultaneously that a carriage was entering the gate which divided the Webster farm from the grounds about the house. And out of the carriage a handkerchief was being riotously waved.

At their approach the carriage stopped and a woman alighted.

She put her hands on Bettina’s shoulders kissing her on both cheeks.

“You are looking better, darling.”

Then she turned.

“Polly O’Neill, didn’t you know I would come from Washington as soon as I learned you were in this part of the world? How can you look so exactly like you always did as a girl, in spite of your age and honors? You are thin as a rail.”

It was Betty Ashton—Mrs. Anthony Graham—exquisitely dressed and perhaps more beautiful than ever. She was now recognized as one of the loveliest women in Washington; indeed in the United States.

Yet she and the really great actress came gaily walking across the lawn, with their arms about each other like school girls.

“Don’t tell me you think I have gained a pound, Polly O’Neill Burton, or I shall never forgive you, though of course I know I have gained twenty. How did I find out you were here? Why, Bettina telegraphed me. Isn’t she lovely. She said you had some wonderful scheme on hand. Whoever saw Polly without a problem. Have your own way, dear, as far as I am concerned. It isn’t such a bad way as it sometimes seems. But I do wish you looked stronger.”

Then Mollie joined her sister and friend.

CHAPTER III
The Human Equation

In an unscientific fashion Mrs. Burton was searching for her purse. She had peered in the bureau drawers, in her dismantled trunk, and was now sitting on the edge of her bed trying mentally to discover the lost object.

Since her arrival at her sister’s home when had she last seen her pocketbook and for what purpose had she used it?

Ordinarily Mrs. Burton traveled with a maid, who attended to as many details of life for her as were possible, in order that she might save her strength for her work. Also because Polly Burton was not much more dependable about small matters than Polly O’Neill had been. But at present Marie was away on a holiday, trying to reconcile herself to the prospect of a year of life in the wilderness, instead of in hotels, or in Mr. and Mrs. Burton’s New York city apartment, where they lived when they were acting in New York.

As Polly with her usual impetuosity had decided to follow her letter to her niece a few hours after the letter was written, there had been no opportunity to find another maid. Not that one was in the least useful or desirable in Mollie’s house. Mrs. Burton was not spoiled into the idea of thinking that she required the services of a maid except when she was at work.

However, at present she was still in her dressing gown and with her bed unmade. Mollie always insisted that her sister have her breakfast in bed during the first of her visit and until she was entirely rested. It was now nine o’clock. The early search for the pocketbook was really due to this fact. At any moment the other Polly, whom the family were now struggling to learn to call Peggy, might appear to offer her aid and to help make the bed.

This morning visit represented the one opportunity when she and her adored Tante might have a talk without being interrupted.

And this was why Mrs. Burton had been searching for her money. For here was her chance for bestowing a gift upon her namesake, and through her upon Dan and Billy, without family discussion or objection. Always she looked forward to this moment as one of the chief pleasures of her visit to her sister.

Not that Mollie and her husband were poor. They were unusually prosperous, owning one of the best farms in New England. But they did not have money for unnecessary things. Indeed, no matter what they might have had, they would never have permitted it to be used extravagantly. Therefore Peggy—and her adopted name will be used henceforth, since no one, not even the public, could call her distinguished aunt by any name save Polly Burton—and her brothers rarely had much money of their own to spend. Tante, however, was a delightfully extravagant person, who never had forgotten how poor she used to be herself, and how many impossible things she had then wished for.

Therefore, a few moments later, when Peggy knocked at her door, an abstracted voice bade her enter. For the purse had not even been mentally found. Yet, as far as she could recall, Polly thought she had put it in her top bureau drawer. There at present, however, it was not.

She lifted her eyes as her niece came in.

“‘Peggy of my Heart,’ look in the bureau drawer and find my pocketbook,” she began nonchalantly, knowing that it was a wise method to pursue in persuading another person to find a lost treasure. Better to begin by not confusing the searcher with the sense of loss.

So Peggy looked for five minutes and, being a matter-of-fact person, she looked thoroughly.

“It isn’t here,” she announced, with the conviction characteristic of her.

Her aunt waved a vague hand.

“Be sure to look everywhere, dear.”

And Peggy conscientiously looked, Mrs. Polly Burton assisting with less energy.

But by and by, when both of them were exhausted from the most fatiguing occupation in the world—searching for and not finding a desired object—they sat down on opposite sides of the bed, facing each other.

“How much money did you have in your purse, Tante?” Peggy demanded, speaking with the severity each member of her family and her intimate friends employed in discussing practical matters with the famous but sometimes erratic lady.

“A hundred dollars,” Polly returned with emphasis. “Only yesterday afternoon when we came in from tea I counted the money carefully and then thought I put the purse in the top drawer. Afterwards I was out of my room until about ten o’clock last night and then your mother and Aunt Betty and I came up here and talked.”

Peggy frowned.

It amused her aunt to watch her. Peggy had so much the look of her father—the boy with whom Polly O’Neill had used to have so many quarrels—in spite of the difference in their coloring. If Peggy was as obstinate as he had been, it was to be hoped that aunt and niece would have few differences of opinion.

But Peggy’s attention at present was concentrated on the lost money.

“Mother will be terribly distressed when she hears, for it must have been one of the servants. And we have had all of them a long time.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, it does not matter so much as all that.” Polly spoke like an embarrassed girl. “And in any case please don’t tell mother.”

“She will not only be worried but vexed with me as well. Somehow I must have been careless, and there is nothing worse, I think, than holding other people responsible for one’s carelessness. The money will turn up or else I’ll write Uncle Richard.”

But Peggy was not so easily diverted from an idea or a purpose.

There was a characteristic line from her forehead to the end of her short, straight nose. Also she had a fashion of lifting her head and looking fearlessly ahead, as if she were contemplating something in the outside world, when in reality she was only thinking.

“Billy might help us,” she said suddenly. “He knows all the servants on the place and they like him better than they do the rest of us.”

And, without waiting for her aunt’s consent, Peggy disappeared.

She was gone a long time—so long that Mrs. Burton grew annoyed. She made her own bed and made it extremely well, having never forgotten this part of her Camp Fire education. She also wrote a note to her husband, who was on a tour in the West. She was just contemplating dressing and joining the others downstairs when Peggy came back. Billy was with her, and Billy bore the lost pocketbook.

His expression was odd, but it was Peggy about whom Polly felt suddenly frightened. Her usually brilliant color was gone, and her lips were in a hard line.

“Billy took your purse,” and then in a queer voice, “but please make him explain. I cannot.”

Billy laid the purse gently on his aunt’s knee and looked directly at her.

It chanced that Polly was sitting in a tall chair so that her eyes were on a level with the boy’s.

It had always been Polly’s impression that Billy was her favorite of her sister’s children; perhaps because he was not the favorite with his mother or father. And then undeniably he was a problem.

“I took your pocketbook, Tante.”

He spoke with a little embarrassment—not a great deal. “I needed some money at once and knew you would give it to me later. There was no chance to ask. You were downstairs and when I came up afterwards to tell you mother and Aunt Betty were in here and I did not wish them to know.”

There was a slight exclamation of consternation and shame from Peggy, but Mrs. Burton was speechless.

She was not a moralist—that is, it was difficult for her to know how to preach. But would preaching or anything she could say make Billy understand the wrong he had done? His mother and father were the most punctilious people in the world? What must they not have said to him in times past? He was not a child.

“I am sorry, Billy; it wasn’t square,” Polly said finally, but looking and feeling more ashamed than the boy himself apparently did.

Billy’s blue eyes were puzzled and regretful, but not conscience-smitten.

“You intended to persuade father to take me west with you and I would rather have gone than anything in the world,” he remarked slowly in reply. “Now you don’t want me to go because you are afraid of the responsibility I would be, and you don’t trust me.”

He did not put this as a question. He was making a statement. Nevertheless his aunt answered, “Yes.”

Then, without any further explanation and without even asking to be forgiven, Billy walked out of the room.

“He is the queerest boy in the world,” Peggy said in distressed tones when the door closed; “and worries mother and father nearly to death. No one of us understands him. He does whatever he likes and then accepts his punishment without a word. He does not like the farm as Dan and I do, and has never been a hundred miles away. Yet he would rather do a horrid thing like this and so spoil his chance for going west with you. Father might have given in.”

Polly arose. “Let’s not talk about it. Run downstairs, dear; I am going to put on my riding habit. Will you see if the horses will be ready at eleven? Aunt Betty and I are going to ride over the country together. I can’t walk very far and it is our best chance for discovering our old haunts. I knew every inch of this country once as a girl and want to see our old Sunrise Hill cabin again. Don’t speak of what has happened.”

Then as Peggy started to leave, her aunt thrust the delayed gifts for herself and Dan into her hand. They were two ten-dollar bills.

Afterwards when Peggy had gone, she nervously counted over her money; Billy had taken only ten dollars—her usual gift to him. For even this she was thankful. But for what purpose had the boy needed money in such a hurry? And why had she discovered him on the night of her arrival waiting alone at the side of the road when he should have been at home with his family?

Well, perhaps it was best to have found out Billy’s peculiarities before taking him away with her. Nevertheless, Mrs. Burton was profoundly sorry. Certainly the boy needed help of some kind. Yet she would probably not be equal to the problem of suddenly adopting a large and nearly grownup family of girls.

“Fools rush in,” Polly smiled and then sighed. “But, after all, I won’t have an opportunity for worrying over my own health very often.”

Then she went down to the living room.

CHAPTER IV
The April Woods

“Again the blackbirds sing; the streams

Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams,

And tremble in the April showers

The tassels of the maple flowers.”

Polly recited Whittier’s verse with a wistful inflection in her voice that made her companion turn from looking at the scenery to gaze at her.

“Don’t make a cheerful poem sound like a lament for all the lost springs in the world, Polly darlint,” Betty Graham pleaded. “I declare you become more of a fascinator the older you grow. But I suppose that is a part of your genius. Funny we didn’t know you were a genius in the old Sunrise Hill Camp Fire days, and only thought you were ‘fee’ as the Irish say. Queer there is another Camp Fire organization of girls now, with our old title and with Mollie Webster for their guardian! Ah well, times do change, though I know that is not an original remark.”

Polly laughed. The two friends were cantering along side by side through a lane in the New Hampshire woods. They were on their way to see the old cabin where long ago they had lived and worked together with nearly a dozen other girls for a happy year.

The riding was difficult because the road was still muddy from spring rains, but Polly rode frequently in Central Park when she happened to be in New York City and Betty, in an effort to keep her figure, had daily horseback exercise in Washington. At present they were actually paying more attention to each other’s conversation than to their horses.

“And here I am adopting some of Mollie’s Camp Fire responsibilities without being half so well equal to them as she is. Do you think my scheme of taking a few of her Camp Fire girls and some of my own to camp on the edge of the Painted Desert with me a mad scheme, Betty? Of course, I have to see the girls first and choose the ones I wish and then argue the matter with their parents. You and Anthony are going to allow me to have Bettina?”

Involuntarily both women had slowed down their horses.

“We cannot help it very well, Polly,” Mrs. Graham replied. “Bettina has thought of nothing else and dreamed of nothing else since you first wrote of your plan to her and to Polly—oh, to Peggy, I mean. I do hate this business of two persons in one family having the same name. We have had trouble enough with the difficulty in our own family. Bettina has even written some charming verses about the desert, which she showed to me the night of my arrival.

“But I am afraid I shall never have any more influence over my daughter after she has been with you, dear. Truth is, Bettina and I adore each other but are not in the least alike. And Anthony says I must give Bettina the chance to do the thing she believes she would love. She does not care in the least for society or many people, and it is so hard for me to understand,” Betty Graham ended wistfully.

But in return her beloved friend only laughed. “Nonsense, Betty; we are not all born beauties and belles, as you were. Oh, yes, I do think your Bettina is very pretty, so don’t get your mother bird feathers ruffled. But I don’t think ‘the little Princess’ is the beauty her mother was and is.” Then seriously, “Of course I shall do my best to look after your daughter, Betty dear, if anything should—” she hesitated.

Her friend answered gravely, “Of course her father and I will both understand. But Bettina knows nothing of the actual world. She has lived in her ambitions and dreams. Hard as it is for us, she must take her own risks and learn her own lessons.”

“If only you would come with me, Betty—you or Mollie. I may not be equal to the task alone,” Polly suddenly announced, having felt another qualm at the task ahead of her. Then she laughed.

“I have just had the funniest letter from Sylvia Wharton. You see, I wrote and asked Sylvia to take a year from her hospital work and come west to look after me. Doctor Sylvia flatly declines and suggests that she has more important things to do. Still, she has done a Sylviaesque thing! She proposes, or rather orders me, to take with me a young woman who started her hospital training and has broken down. She has recovered, but Sylvia thinks the change will help her. Also, she says the young woman is particularly well adapted for looking after all of us.

“She writes that I won’t need a maid and am to leave poor Marie in New York. She is right, I expect, about Marie, but I won’t do that. However, I don’t think it will be a bad idea, if the young woman Sylvia wishes me to take is fairly agreeable. She can teach my Camp Fire girls first-aid requirements and then, if any one is ill, help in an emergency.”

Mrs. Betty Graham nodded her handsome head.

“Sylvia is always sensible and has been from her youth up, in contrast to you, dear. However, don’t think that you and your girls are to be left in peace in your desert camp, Polly. I cannot go along with you at present, but I wouldn’t miss the experience of being with you for a time for a year of every-day life. So I’ll turn up some time when you least expect me—and I shall bring my Tony. You haven’t invited my son to your camp, Polly; are you taking Dan and Billy?”

For the second time Mrs. Burton’s expression changed to one of anxiety. “I wish I knew whether to ask your advice about something, Betty.”

But, before she had finished, her horse stumbled in a hole ahead and, becoming frightened, started to run.

First Polly felt herself being thrown violently forward, then tilted to one side, then backward and forward again. However, she had no idea of being frightened and, although her saddle girth was broken, she still held on. Really, the first thought flashing through her consciousness was the recollection of her sister Mollie’s parting words:

“Do please remember, Polly, that you are not young as you used to be. I don’t approve of this horseback riding for women of yours and Betty’s age. And I always feel more nervous about your getting into trouble than I do my own children.”

Then her own reply: “Nonsense, Mollie; you always were a ‘’fraid cat.’ I expect to ride a bucking broncho for the next year, so I certainly ought to be able to manage one of William’s quiet steeds.”

However, Polly Burton was becoming unable to manage one of “William’s quiet steeds.”

Although, by a firmer clutch on the reins, she had been able to keep herself in the saddle without its slipping off, yet her horse kept pounding ahead, paying not the least attention to her exhortations or her pulling.

A difficulty was that the horse was often used for driving and had a less sensitive mouth than those to which its rider had been accustomed.

However, the experience might be exhilarating if the saddle did not slip off entirely, as the road lay straight ahead. The horse would stop when he grew tired. There was only one trouble to be particularly feared and that was the loss of one’s breath from a pain in the side which the hard awkward riding might bring on.

The other horse had straightway been outdistanced. After one cry from Betty, Polly heard no other sound from her.

But now the pain was coming which was the trial of her life, and a sense of dizziness followed.

Fortunately a little ahead, on a path that ran alongside the road, a boy and a girl were walking. Polly believed she called to them, although they must have heard the noise of the runaway first.

For Billy Webster moved only a few steps and then stood waiting for the horse to come opposite him. When it did he made an upward leap. Seizing the bridle he continued holding on to it until the horse, after running a few yards more, peacefully stopped as if this had been his intention all along.

However, before this instant, looking down upon her nephew, it seemed to Mrs. Burton that he was very inadequate to the task ahead of him, although she never had seen any one so calmly determined.

When the horse ceased running Billy must also have lifted her down. The next thing she was conscious of was hearing him say:

“I don’t think you need be frightened, Vera; she has not really fainted.”

Billy Gave an Upward Leap

Then Mrs. Burton discovered that she was seated on the ground with her back against a tree, and with her riding hat dangling rakishly over one eye. Above her a girl whom she had never seen before was anxiously bending.

Without making an effort to speak until the pain in her side grew less severe and her breathing more natural, Polly at once tried to straighten her hat.

But Billy continued to talk as if nothing unusual had occurred and as if his aunt could give him her undivided attention.

“I have been thinking the matter over, Tante, and I want to explain something to you,” he said as he made a slight movement with his hand toward the girl. “This is Vera Lageloff, a friend of mine. I took your money before you had a chance to give it to me because Vera’s people needed it and I knew it would be useless to ask father. I hope you will pardon me. I suppose it was not square. Vera’s father is one of my father’s farmers, who has been working a part of our land on shares. He has not been straight or industrious and father has asked him to go. Of course, he had to find some other place to go, but he had no money and there are several other children. Vera told me that he had a chance, if he could only get the money for a railroad ticket, but had to have it at once. I had been to their house the night I met you. I did not tell them at home, because father does not like my interfering with his working people. And he does not trust Vera’s father. I don’t trust him, either, but I don’t wish his children to suffer. Do you?”

Billy had at last concluded his speech.

While he was talking it occurred to his aunt, who was accustomed to having a good deal of attention paid to her health, and indeed to all her concerns, that her nephew was but little interested in her accident. But then he was never interested in anything which he considered unessential. Nevertheless, there was something about this youthful Billy Webster, which made him difficult to answer readily. If he was not going to become a socialist or an anarchist, at any rate he was a law unto himself.

Yet his aunt did not clearly understand what point he was trying to make at the present moment. In reply she murmured something about being sorry; but this was not the time for such a discussion. In any case, his father must, of course, know best.

Then, struggling to get on her feet again and finding the girl beside her trying to help, Mrs. Burton for the first time acknowledged their introduction. She scarcely looked at the girl, because Billy again took up the conversation and was more amazing this time than before.

“I do hope you will take Vera to camp with you, Tante. She is a member of mother’s Camp Fire club and mother likes her. Besides, she ought to get away from her family.”

Billy’s effrontery or his belief in his own judgment affected his aunt curiously. She had never known anything like it before. However, she had seen but little of Billy in the last few years, and before now he had appeared only as a shy, delicate boy.

Fortunately, before having to reply one way or the other to his latest demand, Mrs. Burton observed Betty Graham riding up the road toward her as rapidly as her horse could travel. Betty’s concern over her friend’s experience and its possible unfortunate consequences was in striking contrast to the coldness and lack of interest of the younger generation.

Afterwards, returning home a little later on an entirely subdued animal, Mrs. Burton regretted that she had not looked at Billy’s friend more carefully. At present she believed she would hardly recognize the girl if they chanced to meet again. And undoubtedly the Russian girl and her nephew must be devoted friends.

CHAPTER V
Observation

Two girls were standing on the rear platform of a big observation car that had left Chicago a number of hours before.

They were charmingly dressed for travel—one in a brown corduroy coat and skirt, a cream-colored blouse and a soft brown felt hat, with a single cream-colored wing in it, and the other in blue. The first was a small, dark girl with a brilliant color, scarlet lips and black eyes. But little in the swiftly passing landscape seemed to escape her interest.

The other girl was perhaps a year older and had light golden-brown hair. Her eyes were sometimes gray, sometimes blue and now and then faintly green, should she chance to be standing under a group of trees or surrounded with any green foliage. Her dress was like that of her companion except for the difference in color. Her expression was less animated; her vision appeared to be not only an outward but an inward one. She saw the landscape before her with pleasure and yet had even greater pleasure in the reflections it brought to her mind.

Finally, the train gave an unexpected lurch in making a wide curve, and she slipped her arm through her companion’s.

“Isn’t it heavenly, Peggy?” she demanded. And then. “I know I am selfish, so please don’t reproach me; but sometimes I have wished that just you and I were going to camp with Tante. We have not been away very long, but we seem to be an odd combination.”

The other girl laughed.

“Traveling with a group of girls Tante has chosen, did you expect anything else? The oddness of our party has probably only begun, Bettina. You know Tante has a curious fashion of liking or disliking an individual for what he or she happens to be, without any reference to their circumstances. And she has selected her Camp Fire club in this way. I suppose when you become as famous as she is you can afford to do as you like,” Peggy Webster concluded.

In spite of the difference in their natures the two girls were devoted friends.

Bettina now looked a little wistful.

“Tante does not like me much, does she, Peggy? Oh, I don’t mean that she is not fond of me, because I am my mother’s daughter and, for old associations, and she would do any kindness for me. But one knows when a person is attracted toward one without being told. Tante is much more interested in that queer Russian girl, Vera, and in the girl she brought with her from Chicago.”

For a moment Peggy Webster continued to watch the landscape apparently sailing by. Then she answered.

“I think we had better go back to the others, Bettina, as it is nearly tea time. Yes, I agree with you that it does seem unfortunate that we girls start out by appearing to be so uncongenial. But perhaps our Camp Fire club life together will alter us. At least we will understand each other better after a few months of living together anyhow. Mother says that is one of the most important influences of the Camp Fire. You know it is supposed to teach us to put aside the conventional society idea and learn to care for each other as men sometimes do. We are all girls and, whatever our circumstances, have pretty much the same needs and ideals.”

Then feeling her cheeks crimson because she feared that her words held a suggestion of preaching, Peggy turned and started to lead the way back into the observation car. Bettina, however, did not at once follow her.

The rear half of the observation train was occupied by the new Sunrise Hill Camp Fire club. Mrs. Polly Burton, the new Camp Fire guardian, sat by one of the windows, glancing out at the great grain fields through which their train was cutting its way like a mammoth thrashing machine.

She was elegantly dressed in a tailored suit of dark blue cloth; and behind her hung a fur coat for use in case the weather should turn suddenly cold. Her bags and all her appurtenances of travel showed wealth and luxury, and yet, in spite of all this and of her distinguished reputation, the great lady herself looked fragile and subdued. Indeed, she bore a striking resemblance to the very Polly O’Neill who so often used to start out on a task in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, only to find later that she had scarcely the ability or strength to go on.

Not alone did Bettina believe that the new club was an oddly assorted group!

Only in Chicago had they actually begun their journey to the West together.

Some time before, Mrs. Burton had left her sister’s home in New Hampshire and in Chicago joined her husband, who was playing there during the late spring season. A few days before, Mr. and Mrs. Webster had come on from their home to Chicago in order to chaperon the new group of Camp Fire girls that far along the way. There they had been joined by Mrs. Burton and one other new club member besides Polly’s French maid, Marie.

Marie had traveled with Polly everywhere since her marriage, having charge of her clothes—both her stage and personal ones—and striving, though vainly, to turn her mistress into the fashionable, conventional character it was impossible for her ever to be.

At present Marie was hovering about, paying Polly small attentions which annoyed her, and which she felt were not good for the intimacy she hoped to establish with her Camp Fire girls.

Personally she wished to forget her usual style of life—the fatigue, the excitement, even her own success—and to have the girls forget it. But Marie was a constant and persistent reminder of all these things. Yet when she had suggested to Marie that she remain behind, as she would dislike a western camp, Marie had burst into such French tears and such French protestations that Mrs. Burton, who was never very firm where her affections were concerned, had given in.

Now Marie was really the most trying member of the ill-assorted party.

“Do please go back to your own place and leave me alone, Marie,” Mrs. Burton finally said, unable longer to conceal her irritation. “I am not a hopeless invalid and, even if I were, I should not wish you to be constantly pushing cushions behind my back.”

Then, as Marie flounced off in a temper, Mrs. Burton laughed and sighed.

Although accustomed to having thousands of eyes fixed upon her while she was acting, Polly had become embarrassed by the critical survey of two pair which were at present across from her. They belonged to her own Camp Fire group—Esther’s and Dick Ashton’s older daughter Alice, and Ellen Deal, the young woman Sylvia Wharton had more or less thrust upon the party.

Ellen was from a small town in Pennsylvania, but with her small, neat figure, high color and sandy hair, she might have come from a real English village in Yorkshire or Lancashire. She was older than the other girls and had already showed a decided fancy for Alice Ashton. Mrs. Burton fancied that she disapproved of her and would not try to conceal her point of view. She might really be too blunt to make for happiness in a Camp Fire club.

Alice Ashton was a typical Boston girl. She was like her mother in appearance, except that her hair was a darker red, and she was handsomer than her mother had ever been. She wore glasses and was a graduate of Wellesley College. In accepting the Camp Fire invitation Alice had frankly stated that she wished to make an especial study of Arizona Indian customs for her English work the following year.

But she had not seen her mother’s old friend since she was a little girl and, in Alice’s case, Polly also felt she had proved a disappointment.

It was natural that Alice should expect a famous actress to be impressive in manner and appearance, and Polly Burton was neither—of which she was well aware. She was very slight and vivid and not always sure of herself or her moods. Really Alice gave her the feeling that she should resign at once as Camp Fire guardian and let Alice reign in her place. She would probably fill it far better.

But Sally Ashton was different, and Mrs. Burton felt that one might get amusement if not edification out of Sally. The very name of Sally was an encouragement to do or say something saucy. And this Sally had large, soft brown eyes and wavy hair and little white, even teeth. If her expression was at present demure, one could see possibilities behind the demureness.

In order not to think of herself as under a critical survey, Mrs. Burton continued studying her new group of girls.

Sally was at the moment talking to the girl whom she had invited and who had joined the party with her at Chicago. If Gerry Williams’ history was so unusual that it might be best not to confide her story to the Camp Fire girls until they knew each other better, at least Mrs. Burton was happy in the choice of her. She was so pretty and charming and seemed to have so many possibilities if only she could have the proper influences.

Gerry was about sixteen and slender, with lovely light hair, blue eyes, and with almost too much color in her cheeks. Fortunately she had once been a member of a Camp Fire club in Chicago and so knew of their methods and ideals.

There was no suggestion then that Gerry would be a problem in the new club. Already she seemed to be making friends with most of the other girls.

Vera—Billy’s adored friend—might be the trial. The girl had been born in Russia and brought to the United States about six or eight years ago. She spoke English perfectly and did not seem to be ill at ease, although she talked very little. However, Vera’s heavy dark face, with her low brow and long dark eyes, was an interesting one. Curiously, she was also a friend of Mrs. Webster’s—it was Mollie who had added her plea to Billy’s that the Russian girl be a Camp Fire guest.

“Yet, after all, what understanding had she of girls? And how little she had seen of them since her own girlhood!” Mrs. Burton concluded.

Then, just as she was again becoming depressed, she saw her adored niece coming down the aisle.

Peggy always brought an atmosphere of relief and reasonableness. In fact, she discovered at once that her aunt was feeling frightened and unequal to the plan ahead. Of course, it was a great undertaking for a woman who had been spoiled—as Polly O’Neill Burton had been—by husband, family, friends and an admiring public—and not in good health—to suddenly become guide, philosopher, mother and friend to a number of strange girls.

In spite of their audience, Peggy leaned over and kissed her.

“It will be all right, Tante; don’t be downcast. Only at present everybody is homesick and tired as you are. Can’t we have tea? You are not sorry we have come?”

“Certainly not,” and Polly smiled at her own childishness while she rejoiced over Peggy’s sweetness and good sense.

Of course, she had known there would be difficulties in so original a Camp Fire club experiment. But when did anything worth while ever arrange itself without difficulties?

Ten minutes later two colored stewards in white uniforms had arranged the tables and brought in tea.

In entire good humor Mrs. Burton presided while the men were kept busy passing back and forth innumerable cups of tea and plates of sandwiches.

The girls were fifty per cent more cheerful and consequently more agreeable. At the table nearest Mrs. Burton were Peggy, Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams.

All at once Mrs. Burton turned to her niece.

“What in the world has become of Bettina, dear?” she demanded. “I had not missed her until this moment. I am not a very successful old woman who lived in a shoe with so many children she couldn’t tell what to do, for I don’t even know when one of mine is lost.”

Peggy got up.

“Bettina is out on the back platform dreaming, I suppose. I told her to come in with me a quarter of an hour ago. I’ll go get her.”

However, after a little time, Peggy returned alone looking a little cross.

“Bettina has disappeared. I can’t find her,” she announced. “As I did not want to miss tea, I asked our porter to look.”

And no one thought of being worried about Bettina until the porter came to say that no young woman answering Bettina’s description could be found.

CHAPTER VI
Experience