Her Lord and Master

[Frontispiece: "You locked me out!" she said, hysterically.
(missing from book)]

HER LORD
AND MASTER

By MARTHA MORTON

Illustrated by

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
and ESTHER MAC NAMARA

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
18 East Seventeenth Street, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1902
By
ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All Rights Reserved

Contents

CHAPTER

I.—[A Reunion]
II.—[Birds of Passage]
III.—[On a Model Farm]
IV.—[Springtime]
V.—[Camp Indiana]
VI.—[Guests]
VII.—[The Weaver]
VIII.—[The World's Rest]
IX.—[In an Orchard of the Memory]
X.—[The Might of the Falls]
XI.—[A Moonlight Picnic]
XII.—[Leading to the Altar]
XIII.—[England]
XIV.—[Transplantation]
XV.—["I Shall Keep My Promise"]
XVI.—[An Escapade]
XVII.—[Late Visitors]
XVIII.—[Awakening]
XIX.—["And as He Wove, He Heard Singing"]

Illustrations

["You locked me out!" she said, hysterically.] Frontispiece

["I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"]

[Catching Pollywogs]

["I—I—what have I said? I didn't mean it."]

["I will have love to help me."]

Foreword

"Her Lord and Master," by Martha Morton, was first produced in New York, during the Spring of 1902. The play met with great success, and ran for over one hundred nights at the Manhattan Theatre.

Miss Victoria Morton, the sister of the playwright, now presents "Her Lord and Master" as a novel.

The play is being produced in the principal cities during this season.

CHAPTER I.

A Reunion.

"Did the ladies arrive, Mr. Stillwater?" inquired the clerk at the Waldorf Hotel, New York, as a tall, broad-shouldered man, unmistakably Western in appearance, walked smilingly up to the desk.

"Bag and baggage, bless their hearts!"

A dark, distinguished looking man, who was looking over the register, glanced at the speaker, then moved slightly to one side as the latter took up the pen. Stillwater registered in a quick, bold hand, and walked away. The dark gentleman turned again to the register and read:

"Horatio Stillwater, Stillwater, Indiana."

"Horatio Stillwater, Stillwater!" he remarked to the clerk with a cultured English accent. "A coincidence, I presume?"

"Not at all," answered the clerk laughing. "That often happens out West. You see, Stillwater founded the town. He owned most of the land, besides the largest interests in wheat and oil. It's a great wheat and oil centre. Naturally the town is named after him."

"Naturally," acquiesced the Englishman, staring blankly at the clerk. He lit a cigar and puffed it thoughtfully for about five minutes, then he exclaimed, "Extraordinary!"

"Beg pardon?" said the clerk.

"I find it most extraordinary."

"What are you referring to, Lord Canning?"

"I was referring to what you were telling me about this gentleman, of course!" Lord Canning pointed to Stillwater on the register.

"Oh!" laughed the clerk, amused that the facts he had given were still a matter for reflection. "Yes, he's one of our biggest capitalists out West. The family are generally here at this time of the year. The ladies have just arrived from Palm Beach."

"Palm Beach?"

"That's south, you know."

"Oh, a winter resort?"

"Exactly."

Lord Canning recommenced his study of the register.

"Mrs. Horatio Stillwater," he read. "Stillwater, Indiana. Miss Indiana Stillwater." He reflected a moment. "Miss Indiana Stillwater, Stillwater, Indiana. Here too, is a similarity of names. Probably a coincidence and probably not." He read on, "Mrs. Chazy Bunker, Stillwater, Indiana. Bunker, Bunker!" He pressed his hand to his forehead. "Oh, Bunker Hill," he thought, with sudden inspiration.

"Miss Indiana Stillwater, Stillwater, Indiana. If the town was named after the father, why should not the State—no, that could not be. But the reverse might be possible." He addressed the clerk.

"Would you mind telling me—oh, I beg your pardon," seeing that the clerk was very much occupied at that moment—"It doesn't matter—some other time." He turned and lounged easily against the desk, surveying the people walking about, with the intentness of a person new to his surroundings, and still pondering the question.

* * * * *

"Now," said Stillwater, after his family had been duly installed, "let me look at you. I'm mighty glad to see you all again." He swung his daughter Indiana up in his arms and kissed her, then set her on his knee and looked at her with open admiration.

Mr. Horatio Stillwater had never seen any reason why he should be ashamed of his great pride in his only child. Indiana herself had often been heard to remark, "Pa has never really recovered from the shock of my birth. It was a case of too much joy. He thinks I'm the greatest thing on record."

"Well, folks," he said, "I expect you're all dead tired."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker, his mother-in-law. She was a well-formed woman, with dark, vivacious eyes and a crown of white hair dressed in the latest mode. "I could take the trip all over again."

"Did you miss us, father?" asked Mrs. Stillwater, a gentle-looking, pretty woman, with soft, brown hair and dark blue eyes like her child's, only Indiana's were more alert and restless. "Ma has lovely eyes," Indiana was in the habit of remarking. "She takes them from me."

Mr. Stillwater put Indiana off his knees and sat by his wife.

"Did I miss you? Not a little bit."

"Your color's pretty bad, father," she said, "and you look dead tired. Perhaps," she rose impulsively, "perhaps you've been laid up."

"No, ma, no," he placed his big hands on her shoulders, forcing her down in her chair. "I haven't been laid up. But I've been feeling mighty queer."

He was immediately overwhelmed by a torrent of exclamations and questions from Mrs. Bunker and Indiana, while his wife sat pale and quiet, with heaving breast.

"No, I don't know what's the matter with me," he answered. "No, I can't describe how I feel. No, I have not been to a doctor, and I'm not going. There, you have it straight. I don't believe in them."

"Pa!" said Indiana, taking a stand in the centre of the room, "I want to say a few words to you."

"Oh, Lord!" thought Stillwater, "When Indiana shakes her pompadour and folds her arms, there's no telling where she'll end."

"I want to ask you if the sentiments which you have just expressed are befitting ones for a man with a family?"

"Mother," said Mrs. Stillwater, "he always takes your advice, tell him he should consult a doctor."

"Indiana has the floor!" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Is it right that you should make it necessary for me to remind you of a common duty; that of paying proper attention to your health, in order that we should have peace of mind?"

Indiana had been chosen to deliver the valedictory at the closing exercises at her school. This gave her a reputation for eloquence which she liked to sustain whenever an occasion presented itself.

"I see your finish," she wound up, not as elegantly as one might have expected. "You'll be a hopeless wreck and we'll all have insomnia from lying awake nights, worrying. When we once get in that state—" she turned to Mrs. Bunker.

"No cure," said the lady. "Nothing but time."

Stillwater sat with his hand in his pocket and his eyes closed, apparently thinking deeply.

"Well, I've said all I'm going to say."

She looked at him expectantly. His eyes remained closed, however, and he breathed deeply and regularly.

"I have finished, pa. Have you any remarks to make?"

No answer.

"He's asleep, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, with a peal of laughter.

"He is not," said Indiana indignantly. "He's only making believe—" She bent down and looked in his face. "You're not asleep, are you, pa?"

"No, of course not; who said I was?" He sat up rubbing his eyes. "Did you get it all off your mind, Indy?"

"You heard what I said, pa?"

"Certainly; it was fine. You must write it down for me some day, Indy."

"Would you close your ears and eyes to the still, small voice," said Indiana, jumping upon a chair and declaiming in approved pulpit fashion. "The voice which says, 'Go not in the by-ways. There are snares and quick-sands. Follow in the open road, the path of truth and righteousness.' I want to know if you're going to a doctor?"

"Well, I suppose I must, if I want some peace in life."

"No ordinary doctor, you must consult a specialist." She looked around triumphantly.

Her mother smiled on her in loving approval.

"A specialist for what, Indy?" Stillwater asked drily.

Indiana met his eyes bent enquiringly upon her, then burst into laughter.

"Well, you've phazed me this time," she said. Then she installed herself on his knee. "Oh, I don't mean a specialist at all. I mean a consulting physician—an authority."

"Now you're talking," answered Stillwater, with a beaming smile.

Indiana jumped off his knee. "An ordinary doctor isn't good enough for my father!" She gave a very good imitation of a cowboy's swagger. "I'm hungry, pa."

"Well, where are you going to have lunch?"

"I'd like mine brought up," said Mrs. Stillwater. "Are the trunks unlocked, Kitty?" as a young, bright-looking girl appeared at the door.

"Yes ma'am. Come right in and I'll make you comfortable."

"I'll have my lunch up here with ma," said Mr. Stillwater. "What's the rest of you going to do?"

"Oh, we'll go down and hear the band play," said Mrs. Bunker with exuberant spirits. "Come along, Indiana!"

Stillwater was one of the men who had risen rapidly in the West. He had married at a boyish age, a very young, gentle girl, and had emigrated from the East soon after marriage, with his wife and her mother, Mrs. Chazy Bunker. He built a house on government land in Indiana. The first seven years meant hard and incessant toil, but in that time he and the two women saw some very happy days. His marriage had been a boy and girl affair, dating from the village school. One of those lucky unions, built neither upon calculation or judgment, which terminate happily for all concerned. Stillwater was only aware that the eyes of Mary Bunker were blue and sweet as the wild violets that he picked and presented to her, and that she never spelt above him. His manliness won her respect, and his gentleness her love. Their immature natures thus thoughtlessly and happily united, like a pair of birds at nesting time, grew together as the years went on until they became one. After seven years of unremitting work, Stillwater could stand and look proudly as far as the eye could reach, on acre after acre of golden wheat tossing blithely in the breeze. He had been helped to this result by the women who had lived with the greatest economy and thrift putting everything into the land. His young and inexperienced wife acted under the direction of her mother, a splendid manager and a woman of great shrewdness and sense. He could look, also, on the low, red-painted house, which could boast now of many additions, and realize that his marriage had been a success. In that low red house Indiana first saw the light, and, simultaneously, oil was struck on the land. The child became the prospective heiress of millions.

The birth of a daughter opened the source of the deepest joy Stillwater had ever known. When Mrs. Bunker laid the infant swathed in new flannels in his arms, he was assailed by indescribable feelings, altogether new to him. She watched him curiously as he held the tiny bundle with the greatest timidity in his big brawny hands. Feeling her bright eyes on his face he flushed with embarrassment. Mrs. Bunker pushed back the flannel and showed him a wee fist, like a crumpled roseleaf, which she opened by force, clasping it again around Stillwater's finger. As he felt that tiny and helpless clasp tears welled into his honest brown eyes.

"There isn't anything she shan't have," he said. And these words held good through all the years that Indiana lived under his roof. In a spirit of patriotism, Stillwater named his daughter Indiana.

"She was born right here in Indiana," he declared. "She's a prairie flower, so we named her after the State."

The birth of a daughter appealed to Stillwater as a most beautiful and wonderful thing. It awakened all the latent chivalry and tenderness of his character. As he remarked to his friend Masters, "A girl kinder brings out the soft spots in man's nature."

This feeling is a foreign one to the European who always longs for a son to perpetuate his name and possessions, and after all it is a natural egotism when there is a long and honorable line of ancestry, but in all ranks and conditions the cry is the same, "A son, oh Lord, give me a son!"

After the boom which followed the discovery of oil-gushers on the land, and Stillwater looked steadily in the face, with that level head which no amount of success could turn, the enormous prospects of the future, he thought, "It's just come in time for Indiana." His imagination pictured another Mary Bunker, another soft and clinging creature to nestle against his heart, another image of his wife to wind her arms about his neck and look up into his face with trusting love. Instead, he had a little whirlwind of a creature, a combination of tempests and sunshine, with eyes like the skies of Indiana, and hair the color of the ripe wheat, upon which his wife used to gaze as she sat on her porch sewing little garments, nothing as far as the eyes could strain but that harmony of golden color, joining the blue of the sky at the rim of the horizon. The peace and happiness of the Stillwater household fluctuated according to the moods of Indiana. These conditions commenced when she was a child, and grew as she developed. The family regarded her storms as inevitable, and nothing could be more beautiful than her serenity when they passed, nothing could equal the tenderness of her love for them all.

Stillwater, under high pressure from his family, went to consult a noted New York medical authority; a gaunt, spare-looking man, who, after the usual preliminaries, leaned back in his chair and regarded Stillwater fixedly.

"Your liver's torpid, your digestion is all wrong, and you are on the verge of a nervous collapse."

"Well, doctor, what do you advise?"

"Complete change."

"Well, don't send me too far. I have big interests on hand just now."

"Cessation of all business."

"Don't know how I can manage that."

"Get on a sailing vessel. Stay on it for three months."

"I should die for want of an interest in life."

"Take my advice in time, Mr. Stillwater. It will save future trouble."

"I wonder how Indiana would like a sailing trip," thought Stillwater. "If the folks were along I guess we'd manage to whoop it up, all right. Well, I'll think it over, Doctor. Of course, I couldn't do anything without consulting the ladies."

Stillwater smiled in a confidential way, as much as to say, "You know how it is yourself." The noted authority answered by a look of contemptuous pity.

"See you again, Doctor."

As he arrived at the hotel he was hailed by Indiana, driving up in a hansom.

"Been to see the doctor?"

"Yes; I've got lots to tell."

"Jump in and we'll drive around the park. The others won't be home yet."

Stillwater made a feint of hesitating. "Perhaps I'd better wait till we're all together."

"Well, you can jump in anyway, and come for a drive," said Indiana. "I'll give him five minutes," she thought, "before he tells me all he knows."

"The air will do me a whole lot of good," remarked Stillwater, acting on her advice.

It was a clear cold day, in the latter part of February, and the wind blew keenly in their faces as they bowled leisurely up Fifth Avenue.

"Say, Indiana," after three minutes perusal of the promenaders.

"Yes, pa—it's coming," she thought.

"How would you like to go on a sailing trip for three months; the whole kit and crew of us? We'd have everything our own way; I'd see to that. We'd run the whole show. On the water for three months. What do you think of it—eh?"

"Bully!" shouted Indiana, throwing her muff up in the air, and catching it deftly.

"I thought you'd like it," said Stillwater, chuckling.

"What did the doctor say, pa?" said Indiana breathlessly. "What did he say was the matter with you? Tell me—you must tell me."

"Now, Indiana, give me a chance. I'm going to tell you. Didn't I start to give away the whole snap?"

"But you're taking such a long time, pa," she said, tapping the floor of the hansom nervously.

"Well, when it comes down to it, there isn't much the matter with me," answered Stillwater reassuringly. "He said something about a torpid liver."

"Torpid liver!" echoed Indiana, looking as if she were just brought face to face with the great calamity of her life.

"Now, that's what I was afraid of," said Stillwater. "Please don't go on like that before your ma, Indiana. It's not serious."

"No?" echoed Indiana helplessly.

"Why, it's nothing at all," Stillwater laughed hilariously. "Torpid livers—people have them every day."

"Well, what else?" said Indiana.

"Oh, lots," answered Stillwater confidentially.

"Tell me this minute; I must know. Don't you try and keep anything from me, pa."

"Indiana, will you give me a chance? Sit down! You'll be out of this hansom in a minute. Something about digestion. That don't amount to anything."

Indiana sank back with a sigh of relief.

"And something about nerves—says I must throw up business, that's all it amounts to, for a few months."

"Then you'll be cured?"

"Positively."

"Then you shall, pop—you shall; do you hear me?"

"Now, Indiana, what's the use of your taking the reins and whipping up like that? I've told you what I reckon to do. Didn't I broach the subject of a sailing trip?"

"Ma and I are good sailors," remarked Indiana meditatively, "but Grandma Chazy don't like the water."

"Oh, we'll jolly her along her all right," said Stillwater easily. "Say, Indiana," he put his mouth to her ear, "Grandma Chazy wouldn't miss a trick."

Indiana laughed loudly.

"Well, this is what I call a wild and exciting time, Indiana. If you took me on many of these drives I think I'd get rid of that 'slight nervous derangement' the doctor was talking about. Sort of a rest-cure—eh?"

"Oh, if I could only get on that horse's back!" cried Indiana, "I'd make him go."

"Not that horse, Indiana," said Stillwater chuckling. "All the sporting spirit in you wouldn't make that horse go. Suppose we think about getting home?"

"Back to the hotel," he shouted to the driver.

"I can't help thinking of Circus," said Indiana sentimentally. "I wonder if he misses me."

"You think more of that horse than all your beaux, don't you, Indiana?"

Indiana nodded and smiled.

"I'll have my hands full for a few weeks before I go on that sailing trip. I don't know how I'm going to manage it."

"Well, you just must!"

"Suppose we don't say anything to the others till I make sure I can go. I've got some big things on now, Indiana—"

"You won't go after you've worked me all up about it—you'll keep on grinding until you're past curing, until one day you'll just drop down and die. What do you care—and ma and Grandma Chazy and—and I'll be left with no one to look after us." She buried her face in her muff, making piteous little gulps.

"I'm a fool," thought Stillwater, patting her on the back. "The idea of that little thing takin' it so to heart. I didn't think she was old enough to realize things like that. None of us know how much there is in Indiana." His heart swelled with gratitude at this proof of devotion from his only child.

"Now, Indiana, don't lose your grip like this. I'm going, I tell you. I'm going on this trip. There isn't anything on earth that'll stop me. Hi! Driver! Just run through and stop at Thorley's!"

As the hansom dashed up to Thorley's Indiana gave a clear jump to the curb, disdaining the hand her father held out.

"American beauties!" said Stillwater.

The salesman showed them a gorgeous long-stemmed cluster.

"That's the ticket," said Stillwater. "My, they're fresh, Indiana." She selected one and fastened it in her furs. "I'll carry the rest for you. Now what would the others like?"

Indiana flitted about selecting flowers.

"Would you like them sent?" inquired the salesman.

"No," said Indiana, "we'll take them right along."

"Why," exclaimed Stillwater as they were leaving the store, "I was just about forgetting you were all going to the opera to-night. Now, what flowers do you want to wear, Indiana?"

"Well, my dress is white. Hyacinths, white hyacinths. Corsage bouquet, Miss Stillwater."

"And ma, she likes the sweet-smelling ones."

"Well, violets for ma. Violets, Mrs. Stillwater."

"Shall we say violets for Grandma Chazy?"

"I think Grandma Chazy would like something brighter," said Indiana.

"Carnations?" suggested the salesman.

"Yes," said Indiana. "Pink carnations, Mrs. Chazy Bunker. Send to the Waldorf Hotel for this evening. Don't make any mistake, please!"

"Duplicate the order to-morrow, same time," added Stillwater.

Indiana hummed gaily to herself as they drove off with their flowers.

"She's forgotten all about it now," thought Stillwater, with a satisfied glance at her happy face.

Lord Canning noticed them when they entered the hotel.

He was standing in the lobby through which they passed, lighting a cigar preparatory to going out. He recognized Stillwater immediately, and stared curiously at Indiana.

"I suppose that is the daughter," he thought, "Indiana." He smiled as he puffed his cigar.

CHAPTER II.

Birds of Passage.

"Anything, if it's for your good," said Mrs. Stillwater, when the subject of the sailing trip was broached. "Father, this is the finest mignonette I've ever seen."

"Well, I suppose I'll be sick," added Mrs. Bunker dolefully, as she helped her daughter arrange the flowers, "but I'll get used to the motion. As long as we get somewhere sometime, and see something that's worth seeing. Isn't that vase a picture?"

"Well, you must leave that to me, Grandma Chazy. What's the matter with Japan?"

There was a chorus of delight. Indiana jumped wildly up and down the room.

"I'll run in and see the old man to-morrow morning. He'll be glad to hear I'm going to act on his advice. I told him I couldn't pledge myself to do anything until I had first consulted the ladies."

"Well, I guess," said Indiana.

"Let's have lunch; then I must get right down town. You won't see me till dinner."

Their faces fell.

"What are we going to do with ourselves?" said Indiana.

"Go shopping."

This seemed to be a happy idea, and Stillwater congratulating himself that he had suggested an entertainment which appealed to them, kissed his wife, remarking, "Now, don't you go and tire yourself, mother. You can't travel with these other young things."

When Stillwater, the following morning, confided to the noted medical authority that he intended to take his whole family on a sailing voyage to Japan, adding the clause, "We're going to have a real good time," he sank back in his chair, and regarded Stillwater with an expression of patient endurance.

"I thought I had impressed on you, Mr. Stillwater, the necessity of absolute rest and quiet. Rest and quiet; do you understand me?"

"Perfectly! Perfectly! That's what I'm laying my plans for. Three months on a sailing vessel—"

"With your entire family, which includes—?"

"My wife, my daughter, and my mother-in-law."

"A wife, a daughter, and a mother-in-law. None of them deaf or dumb, I presume?"

"Ha, ha, ha! Now you needn't be afraid I shan't have cheerful company. They'll make things hum, I tell you!"

"I don't doubt it for a minute. Mr. Stillwater, I strongly advise this trip without your family. With your family I am as strongly against it. To be confined for three months on a sailing vessel with a wife, a daughter, and a mother-in-law, would be enough to derange any man's nerves, allowing he is perfectly normal when he starts. Now, the consequences in your condition—"

"Now, doctor, you're not sure of your ground. You don't know my family. They're devoted to me."

"Of course," said the Noted Authority, smiling blandly. "That is the trouble."

"Say now. They're not going to do me any harm."

"Intentionally, I hope not."

"Of course they have their little squabbles, but I can manage them all right."

"We might effect a compromise. How old is your daughter?"

"Eighteen. A perfect child. We can do whatever we like with her." Stillwater smiled involuntarily as he uttered this unblushing falsehood, thinking "I mean she can do whatever she likes with us. My words got twisted, that's all."

"Well, suppose we leave your mother-in-law behind, and take your wife and daughter. The latter, I gather, is tractable and easily managed."

"Leave my mother-in-law behind! Oh, I couldn't do that. She's making a great sacrifice for my sake. She's awful seasick but I promised her a good time, once we get to Japan, and I mean to keep my word."

The Noted Authority sighed. "You're quite decided on that point?"

"Quite. Couldn't leave her behind. Wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world."

"There is no more to be said, Mr. Stillwater."

"The sailing trip's off, then?"

"Except you resolve to go alone. In case of nervous derangement I always advise separation. No family."

"Of course, I couldn't presume to argue with you, Doctor. But I'll talk it over with the ladies. They'll never allow me to go alone, though, I'm quite sure of it."

"Is there any necessity to precipitate matters so far?" said the Noted Authority. "Would it not be easier to announce at once quietly and firmly your intention to go, avoiding all preliminary discussion?"

"Oh, you don't know my family; they would not allow that sort of thing. Doctor, are you married?"

"I have been a widower for some years."

"That explains—you've forgotten how it is. You see, my family are a very touchy lot—but I know just how to handle them. We get along swimmingly."

"As these domestic conditions seem inevitable, further discussions seem useless. Talk it over with the ladies. Perhaps with the assistance of your wife, your daughter and your mother-in-law you may arrive at some decision which will be agreeable to all concerned."

"Certainly! Certainly! I'll do as you say—we'll talk it over and we'll hit on something between the lot of us. See you again, Doctor. Good-by."

"He's pretty far gone already, I fear," thought the Noted Authority after Stillwater had departed. "Absolutely afraid to act on his own responsibility."

"What do you think?" cried Stillwater, bursting in on his family about dinner hour. "He won't allow you to go with me on that sailing trip. He says I must go alone."

"Well, pa, you go right back and tell him that we wouldn't think of allowing you to do anything of the kind."

"His office hours are over now, Indiana," said Stillwater, smiling placidly. "Will to-morrow morning do?"

"Oh, father, it would just break my heart to see you going off alone and sick, too."

"Not to be thought of for a minute," said Mrs. Bunker.

"I told him you wouldn't hear of it." Stillwater leaned back in his chair, watching with evident enjoyment the effect of his words. "He said that to confine a perfectly normal person on a sailing vessel for three months with his wife, his daughter, and his mother-in-law, would make him a nervous wreck for life."

"Did he say that, pa?"

"Practically, Indiana."

"Brute," said Mrs. Bunker. "If he once had the privilege of making my acquaintance he might change his views on the matter."

"He might fall all over himself to become one of the sailing party himself then," remarked Stillwater chuckling. "Well, he said I should talk it over with the ladies."

"It's a wonder he gave us that much consideration," said Indiana loftily.

"I reckon he thought he was humoring me. I guess he thinks I'm a gone case." Stillwater slapped his knee. "Well, I've been doing some tall thinking on my own account and it's come to this." He rose and looked at his wife. "In the old days when I was coaxing the ground, I never had these feelings, mother."

"Oh, no!"

"I'm going back to nature. I'm going to buy a farm. I know just where to lay my hands on one in Indiana. Spring is coming. I'm going to live on it and work on it, till I'm a new man again."

"I second that motion," said Mrs. Bunker, bringing her hand down on the table.

"And I," cried Indiana. "We'll all go farming."

"Well, mother, you're not saying a word."

She smiled up at him. Her eyes were full of tears.

"It—it will be like the old days," she said.

"Here are the hats!" cried Indiana, as Kitty, the maid, entered staggering under the weight of a number of boxes. They all became immediately interested in the absorbing question of spring headgear.

"How do you like this?" inquired Mrs. Bunker, perching a black net concoction on her carefully dressed head.

"Very becoming!" answered Indiana, after a critical inspection.

"Suits you fine, grandma!" said Stillwater.

"Shows what you all know!" remarked Mrs. Bunker, looking in the glass. "It's entirely too old for me." She placed it on her daughter's smooth brown coils.

"Ah!" cried Stillwater admiringly. His wife, sitting under inspection, looked inquiringly at Indiana. A mirror held no significance for Mrs. Stillwater. She was always supremely satisfied with whatever her family approved of, for her, in the way of personal adornment.

"I'll take that hat for ma," said Indiana. "It's all right."

"Yes, Mary can afford to wear it," said Mrs. Bunker. "I'm not young enough for a hat like that."

"Ladies," exclaimed Mr. Stillwater, looking at his watch. "This is a pretty interesting show, but excuse me for the liberty of reminding you that there's another, starting at a quarter past eight, at which we've made a solemn resolution to be present."

"Hear! Hear!" cried Indiana.

"It is now seven o'clock. Of course you don't take as long to dress as I do." He made quickly for the door.

"Not a bit longer than other women," cried Indiana.

"Well, we'll leave that question open," said Mr. Stillwater, disappearing.

That evening, as they were stepping from the elevator in their wraps, ready for the theatre, Mrs. Bunker uttered an exclamation of intense surprise.

"Lord Canning!"

"Mrs. Bunker; I am delighted!"

"And Lord Stafford, too!" She shook hands with an elderly gentleman, slightly foppish in appearance. "Well, of all people in the world, to meet you here to-night. I'm just ready to faint."

"Don't! Don't! Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford, with a laugh of intense enjoyment.

"Lord Stafford; Lord Canning; my son-in-law, Mr. Stillwater; my daughter, Mrs. Stillwater, and my grand-daughter, Miss Stillwater."

"Indiana," thought Lord Canning, as he bowed ceremoniously.

"These gentlemen were my constant companions at Cannes last year," said Mrs. Bunker. "We and the Jennings' were together most of the time."

"I'm glad to know you, gentlemen! My mother-in-law's often talked about your kind attention to her abroad."

"Kind attention is no name for it," said Mrs. Bunker. "They gave me the best time I ever had. And now that I've caught them on American ground, I intend to repay it with interest."

"I assure you, Mrs. Bunker, you need feel no sense of obligation," said Lord Canning. "Your companionship was a source of unfailing pleasure."

"What do you think of this big town, Lord Canning?" said Mr. Stillwater, indicating his surroundings by a comprehensive wave of the hand.

"Extraordinary!" answered Lord Canning.

"How long are you going to be here?" inquired Mrs. Bunker of Lord Stafford, while her son-in-law was probing Lord Canning's recently acquired views of America.

"Oh, we're only birds of passage, Mrs. Bunker."

"So are we; but isn't it delightful to meet on the wing?"

"On the wing; ha, ha! Delightful, Mrs. Bunker! Delightful!"

"We start to-morrow for California," said Lord Canning.

"And the day after we return to Indiana," added Mrs. Bunker.

"In the summer we intend to investigate Colorado."

"I have a ranch up in the Rockies," said Stillwater. "Why, this little girl," he brought his hand down on Indiana's shoulders, "learned to shoot up there."

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"Well, you just ought to have seen her once cornering a grizzly. She shot him, too—sure as I stand here."

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Lord Canning.

"Oh, that's a small matter," remarked Indiana modestly.

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"We shoot bears every day in America," she added airily.

At these words Lord Canning looked about him as though he fully expected one to appear that moment, for the purpose of allowing him to see Miss Stillwater dispatch it with all possible speed, and just as she stood there in her long white opera cloak, holding a bunch of hyacinths.

"Not here!" exclaimed Indiana.

"No?" answered Lord Canning, looking absently at her blonde pompadour, every hair of which seemed to quiver with a distinct life and individuality of its own.

Indiana gave vent to a long peal of merriment.

"No—of course not!" Lord Canning hastened to add. "Not here."

"We used to spend most part of our summers in the Rockies," said Stillwater, "but the last two or three years the ladies have preferred the Adirondacks."

"We thought of giving ourselves a month there in the autumn, before we return to England," said Lord Canning.

"Now's my chance," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker; "you must stay with us, and we'll give you fine hunting."

"Plenty of deer in the North Woods," added Stillwater. "You'll be heartily welcome if you care to rough it with us. Camp life, you know."

"I should be only too delighted," said Lord Canning. "What do you say, Uncle?"

"Charmed!"

"I'm sure we'll make you feel at home," said Mrs. Stillwater.

At these words, uttered with such heartfelt sincerity, the two Englishmen felt at home that very moment. There was a soft domesticity about Mrs. Stillwater, which made itself perceptible even in the brilliant crowded corridor of the Waldorf.

"Now, Lord Stafford," said Mrs. Bunker, "take out your note book; and I'll give you all necessary instructions to reach us."

"I generally manage to get up there in September," said Mr. Stillwater. "But, if anything detains me for a short while—you'll be in good hands."

"Yes, we'll take care of you," said Indiana.

Lord Canning smiled. Indiana immediately decided that his face, though stern in repose, was not unattractive.

"Well, good-bye till the fall," said Mrs. Bunker. "Lord Stafford, do you remember that odd trick you had abroad, of turning up unexpectedly, wherever I happened to be?" She tapped him playfully with a carnation from her bouquet.

"Ha, ha, ha! You see, I haven't lost that trick yet, Mrs. Bunker!" He took the carnation and fastened it in his buttonhole.

"Good-bye, Lord Canning," said Indiana. "Don't forget to look us up, when you come to the woods. I'll show you the sights."

Lord Canning bowed, blushing with embarrassment. No young lady, of the tender age of Indiana, had ever before spoken to him with such freedom, or looked at him with such unconscious, unabashed eyes.

"Lively woman, Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford, looking after the party, and inhaling the fragrance of the carnation.

He met with no response.

"Lively woman, eh?" he repeated in a louder tone.

"Yes," answered Lord Canning absently, "very, very young; little more than a child, in spite of her self-assurance—and there's something about her—something—quite—er—different!"

CHAPTER III.

On a Model Farm

"The peas are sprouting pretty lively. The tomatoes are as perky as the young generation. The strawberries—well, they're saying, 'To-day we're here, to-morrow we're gone.' You shall have strawberries and cream for supper this evening."

After delivering this report in his own neat style, Stillwater rolled down his shirt sleeves, threw aside his big straw wide awake, and sank into a rocker.

"What are you making, mother?"

"A little dimity dress for Indiana to wear about the farm."

"Well, history repeats itself on this place. Are you commencing to make dresses for Indiana again? I suppose you're imagining she's a little fat tot, and we've always been just here."

"Not when I look at all this goods," said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though she's small, compared to what I was at her age."

"Why don't you send to town for some dresses," asked Stillwater.

"Oh, because it's a pleasure to make it myself, father, and the child loves to see me do it."

"Bye the bye." Stillwater took a handkerchief from his pocket, and unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary potato. "I'll have something to show at the next county fair, that'll make neighbor Masters feel like very small potatoes."

Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering red roses on white linen, handled the potato with the air of a connoisseur.

"Father, you're working as hard on this farm as if your living depended on it," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"My living does depend on it; I'd have been under the ground before long, if I hadn't taken to this. I consider every potato which costs me ten dollars, is equivalent to a doctor's pill."

Mrs. Bunker laughed.

"My dear grandmother, a man who works as hard as I'm working on my farm, makes a living and nothing more. I sat in my office and doubled my capital without turning a hand, but that's the pace that kills. Halloa, Glen," as a young, good-looking fellow in knickerbockers opened the gate. "Leave your wheel right there."

"Good morning, Mrs. Stillwater."

"Good morning, Glen; how's your mother?"

"Well, thanks. Sends her love, and father's quite his old self."

"Who cured him?" said Stillwater.

"He was getting to be a regular hypochondriac. We compared our symptoms; they were about alike. I constitute myself my own doctor. I buy a farm, and a pretty thing it is, too. I'll be wabashed, if he don't go and do the same."

"Ah, but father happened to have his farm, Mr. Stillwater," said the young fellow, laughing. "It's been neglected for years. It's not a model farm like this, but we're getting it into shape." He looked around, as though he missed something or someone.

"Say, Glen, what do you think of this?" Stillwater proudly exhibited his potato. Glen examined it with professional interest. "You couldn't do any better than that, could you?"

"We don't try. You know what father says, 'Farmin' ain't no fad with my neighbor, Stillwater.'—I'll just fetch a drink from the well."

He went off with a long, swinging stride, and, returning in a moment with a tin cup in his hand, seated himself at Mrs. Stillwater's feet, on the step of the farm-house porch.

"Fine tasting water, eh?" said Stillwater watching him. "Cold as ice; it's a fine thing to have a spring like that, right on your ground."

Glen nodded, drinking slowly, and fingering the dainty, pink and white, flowered material on which Mrs. Stillwater was working. He finally rose, restored the tin cup to the well, sauntered back and into the kitchen, and out again, with a disappointed expression.

"What's the matter, Glen? Lost anything?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, winking at the others.

Glen smiled. "Where's Indiana?"

"Oh, Indiana. She went off on Circus nearly three hours ago."

"Why didn't she stop for me?"

"I suppose she thought one's company, two's a crowd," answered Stillwater.

"You never know when Circus is going to cut up his games," remarked Glen, gloomily.

"Tell me about Circus now," said Mr. Stillwater scornfully, "don't I know Circus by this time?"

"Do you think anything could have happened?" asked Mrs. Stillwater in alarm.

"I've yet to see the horse that Indiana couldn't manage. I never saw two people understand each other better than she and Circus. He fretted and fumed when she jumped on his back this morning, then he did his great act. Stood right up on his hind legs, and looked around for applause. But she sat him like a rock. The two of them made the prettiest picture you ever saw. Well, she got him so, that he trotted off with her like Mary's little lamb. Indiana has a way with a horse."

"I think I hear her now," said Glen, walking down to the gate, and flinging it open.

"Look at that boy!" said Stillwater. "See, how his face lights up!"

"It's only natural," answered Mrs. Stillwater. "They all feel like that towards Indiana."

"No," said Stillwater, watching Glen, "not just like that."

"Yes," interpolated Mrs. Bunker, "he's the same as the rest."

"No," persisted Mr. Stillwater. "Not quite the same. Look at him out there! He's a fine lad."

They glanced at him, standing bare-headed, holding the gate and watching. His small, finely shaped head, with its well-modeled features, showing in relief against the sycamore tree near the gate.

"He fought well for his country," continued Stillwater.

"There are others," said Mrs. Bunker tersely.

"That's all right," responded Stillwater, while the clatter of horses hoofs came nearer. "Not all of them went like him—willing to give their heart's blood."

"Hurrah!" cried Indiana, entering the gate at full gallop, riding straddle, breathless, hatless, her yellow hair streaming behind her. Sitting aloft Circus, who was a tall horse, she looked like a little boy, a very young, tender, pretty boy, whose hair his mother could not yet bring herself to cut. She circled the mound in the centre of the garden, and pulled Circus up tightly at the steps. He reared at the suddenness of the check. Indiana sank forward on his neck, spent with her ride, and circled his head with her arms.

"No more tricks, Circus," she murmured. "The show's over; we're just beat out, Circus." Glen took her in his arms, and lifted her bodily off the horse. A stable boy led him away. His shining black coat was covered with flecks of foam.

"Give me a drink, someone!" said Indiana.

"Not now, Indiana," pleaded Mrs. Stillwater, "you're so warm."

"I'm parched, I tell you," said Indiana, stamping her foot, and pressing her hand to her throat.

Glen ran quickly to the well, and returned with the tin cup, which he held to Indiana's lips.

"Slowly," he said, holding the cup.

"It's warm," she said, snatching the cup, and spilling the remainder of the water.

"Why didn't you stop for me?" asked Glen.

"I wanted to ride alone," answered Indiana, sinking down on the step. "I wanted to think—"

"Think," echoed Stillwater.

"Think," repeated Mrs. Bunker. "Writing a book, Indiana?"

"Think!" said Glen. "If Indiana's taking these notions, I guess I'd better say good bye." He put on his cap.

"Don't mind them, darling," said Mrs. Stillwater. She drew Indiana's head down on her shoulder, feeling her hot cheeks and forehead solicitously.

"She's so warm—"

"What's the use of riding yourself out like that, Indiana?" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy," cried Indiana, starting up. "I'd rather have one mad gallop like that if it were the death of me, than take a slow gait for the rest of my life."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater.

"That's only the sporting spirit in her, mother," said Stillwater. "She comes by it honestly." He smiled as he recalled a few venturesome dealings of his own within the last year, which had not culminated as he would have wished. Stillwater was one of the men who could enjoy a laugh at his own expense.

"There was a devil in me, this morning," said Indiana, fiercely, "and I just rode it down."

"Indiana!"

"That's only young blood, mother. You can't expect her to be the same as we old-timers." He glanced slyly at Mrs. Bunker, who poked him with her needle.

"I was on the war path," said Indiana. "If I hadn't gone out with Circus, I—I—well, you'd have just scattered, that's all."

"Bet yer life," chuckled Stillwater.

"Is my dress finished?" asked Indiana, burying her face in the pink and white folds on Mrs. Stillwater's lap.

"Just a stitch or two more, dear. I've been working on it all morning."

"It looks so nice and cool. I want to put it on."

"So you shall, dear," said Mrs. Stillwater, in the tone one uses to a fractious baby.

"Just leave my hair alone, Glen," exclaimed Indiana, turning suddenly around on him, with flashing eyes.

"All right, Indiana," he said, meekly.

"Come now, darling; come up stairs and when you've had your bath, I'll dress you up and brush your hair nicely. It's all tangled."

"I didn't mean to be cross, Glen," said Indiana, with a sudden change of mood, as Mrs. Stillwater took her hand and led her through the kitchen.

"Oh, that's all right, Indiana!"

Glen Masters had known Indiana all her life. When she was born, the six-year old Glen came to see the baby, and stood by her cradle, sucking his thumb in solemn-eyed wonder. Not having any brothers or sisters of his own, he adopted her immediately; and he loved to be tyrannized over by the petted baby girl, who kicked and scratched him one minute, and the next caressed him with her little, soft, fat palms. His father had risen in the world very much the same way as Stillwater. They had been ranchmen together.

Stillwater lit a meerschaum pipe and puffed it slowly. Glen followed his example.

"There's two birds building a nest up in that sycamore," said Stillwater. "Hear them twitter? They're just as happy as can be."

Glen lounged on the step, looking dreamily up at the sky.

"Well, how are things going on over at the farm?" inquired Stillwater.

"Oh, we'll show some livestock at the County Fair that can't be beat." His eyes smiled a challenge at Stillwater.

"No competition," chuckled Stillwater, "but just you come over to the barn. I want to show you something. 'Farming ain't no fad with Friend Masters,' but I'll meet him at Phillipi."

"When you men once get with the livestock, that's the last we see of you. Dinner's ready as soon as Indiana's dressed," said Mrs. Bunker, as they sauntered off laughing.

It was the custom of the family to partake of dinner farm style, in the large kitchen. The first bell, which Kitty rang daily, was for the family, the second summoned the farm hands.

Glen and Stillwater, by chance, not by any intention of punctuality, emerged from the farm, just as the first bell resounded from the house. It was then that Glen thought fit to stop and utter a very vital question.

"Mr. Stillwater, I want to ask you what you think of my chances with—with Indiana?"

Glen was oblivious to the fact that he had not chosen a very propitious time or spot, to broach such a subject. The dinner bell had just sounded and Mr. Stillwater had been working since five o'clock that morning, to gain an appetite. Then, the mid-day sun poured down on them where they stood, and an Indiana sun is hot in May.

"Your chances with Indiana?" The repetition was merely a subterfuge to gain time, as Indiana's father had not the remotest idea how to answer her young suitor. Glen's preference had been an open secret for a long time; but he had never openly broached the subject, not even to Indiana.

"Yes!"

"Oh—oh, I think they're all right, my boy—why shouldn't they be?" Stillwater looked about him as though challenging earth and heaven to contradict.

"That's exactly what I think," said Glen, grasping the other's hand. "Why shouldn't they be?"

Stillwater's heart sank as he looked into the young fellow's glowing, hopeful eyes. He strongly suspected that Indiana would not accept her old playmate in the character of a lover. But he could not bring himself to tell Glen this. He felt deeply for the son of his oldest friend.

"I've known her all her life, Mr. Stillwater," said Glen, as though this was a fact unknown to Stillwater.

"Is that so, my boy?" said Stillwater, accepting the information seriously.

"And it is my conviction that I understand her better than anyone living; better even than yourself!"

"You do?" said Stillwater. "Well, that's wonderful!"

"It is, and that's why I don't see how Indiana could marry anyone else."

"Anyone else but you?" repeated Stillwater with deference.

"Precisely; anyone else but me. Can't you see it yourself? A stranger wouldn't understand her. He wouldn't have the remotest idea how to treat her. I know all her faults."

"Are you positive about that?"

"Positive."

"Well, it's a great thing to know the worst beforehand."

"Then I can rely on your co-operation in this matter, Mr. Stillwater?"

"You can," said Mr. Stillwater. "I'd like to see it. I've known you from a little lad and you're the son of my oldest friend. I'm with you—you can figure what that's worth." He himself knew how little his wishes would weigh with his opiniative little daughter, in such a case. Glen also realized that fact only too well. What they said was merely a matter of form. They both felt there was a certain etiquette attendant on the subject. "Thank you, Mr. Stillwater. I'm glad to think you consider me a proper husband for Indiana."

"Don't mention it, my boy! and now, I want to give you a little advice. Don't spring anything on Indiana!"

Glen looked at him inquiringly.

"Don't be too sudden—"

"Indiana has already received several offers, but I don't believe anyone of them was a shock to her," answered Glen dryly. He thought also, "How can a fellow be sudden with a girl he's known ever since she had short, yellow rings curling all over her head, and wasn't sure on her feet."

"She expected those offers, but she never dreams of such a thing from you."

"No, I don't suppose she does," said Glen, gloomily.

"Of course, we can't tell anything about her. One never knows what sort of a notion Indiana's going to take. I don't want to discourage you—but don't stake your whole life on this thing, my boy. It won't do—it never does."

Glen drew a deep breath, and turned his head away.

"Put your cap on! The sun's hotter than July."

"Oh, Manila has schooled me to this—and worse, if it comes." He compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past the farm, to the utmost line of horizon, and beyond that.

"You're a true soldier, my boy. Face the music—we've all got to, sooner or later."

The dinner bell rang again with menace in its brassy tones.

"We'd better go back to the house. They'll give us Hail Columbia! Brace up, Glen, and remember—I'm with you!"

Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker was saying to Kitty: "It's the last of those men, once they get with the live-stock."

"Here they are," said Kitty. "Why, Mr. Stillwater! Dinner's ready long ago."

"Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool. This is the hot part of the day. Do you observe that the sun has approached its meridian, Kitty? No occasion for rush here. Rest and quiet, Kitty—that's my cure. Say, look at Indiana! Isn't she the sweetest thing that ever happened?"

She peeped from behind her mother, dressed in the simple pink and white dimity. Her hair had been smoothly brushed, and hung in one long braid. She looked like a fair and happy child, of not more than fifteen; laughing, refreshed from sleep. Glen gazed at her, but said nothing. His recent confession to Indiana's father, had the effect of making him conscious and tongue-tied. There was a large orchard on the farm, where lay the afternoon shade. The family repaired there, according to the daily custom, as soon as dinner was over. Hammocks hung in the trees and Kitty spread shawls on the ground, and brought pillows galore.

Glen sat in the midst of the group, tuning his mandolin, which he kept at the farm. Glen and his mandolin were associated. All invitations issued to him included the clause, "Bring your mandolin!" He seldom made a social visit without it, except on doleful occasions, such as funerals or visits of condolence.

He was hailed with joy whenever he appeared with his frank smile and his mandolin. In the West, there is a keen appreciation of impromptu pleasure.

In the orchard the fruit trees had fully blossomed, the grass was still a young, tender green. Through the masses of delicate pink and white color, shone here and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue sky. There is little to admire, as far as scenery is concerned, in this flat country, over which one can travel for miles without seeing a rolling meadow, or a sign of a hill. But one can rave over the skies of Indiana, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes softly tenderly blue. Their peculiar azure is not reproduced in any other country of the world. The color ran out when the skies of Indiana were painted, and never renewed, in order that they should remain unique. The secret belongs to the Universe.

CHAPTER IV.

Springtime.

"The blossoms are commencing to fall," said Mrs. Stillwater, shaking three or four petals off her work. Her hands were never idle, and they were now manipulating some fleecy white wool. "What a pity it can't always be like this—the trees look so beautiful. I could content myself here all summer—"

"Well, I won't say that," said Mrs. Bunker. "There's no place hotter on earth, than Indiana in summer. But if it would always be as pleasant as now—I like the seashore in July—"

"You mean," interrupted Stillwater, lying under a low-spreading apple tree, with a handkerchief spread over his face, "that you like the 'life' at the seashore. There's no affinity between you and the ocean that I know of."

"Well, have it that way, if you will. I like 'the life at the seashore.'"

Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from the red rose which she was embroidering, with a little less energy perhaps, than in the morning. "Particularly, as we are buried alive in the Adirondacks during August, September and October."

"Buried alive?"

"Buried alive!" Mrs. Bunker looked around triumphantly, enjoying the sensation her words had occasioned. Indiana had thrown down her book which she was reading, lying on her back. Glen stopped thrumming pensive snatches of melody. Mrs. Stillwater gave her mother a startled glance and Stillwater threw the handkerchief from his face and raised himself to a sitting posture.

"Well, I never saw such a woman! Buried alive! Buried—why, you have the camp filled with company. Didn't I have to put up tents for them last year; the place looked as if there was an army bivouacing on it—"

"Oh, yes; I can make a good time for myself wherever I am—but when we're alone there—it's so still, I'm afraid of the sound of my own voice, and jump for joy if I see a chipmunk peeping out of its hole. There's something spry about them, at all attempts. The natives would do well to imitate them. Such a slow lot—and those guides with their drawling voices. The world just stops, when you get up to the Adirondacks."

"I'm never so happy," remarked Glen, "as when I'm in the forests and on those lakes. It's the real thing. City life goes against my grain, somehow."

"I always feel quite natural in the woods," said Indiana. "Just as though I belonged there, with the other wild things."

"When did those English friends of yours say they were coming up, grandma?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, in a muffled voice, having again taken shelter under the handkerchief, after recovering from the last of the many shocks he was in the habit of receiving from his mother-in-law.

"They said September, but I have a shrewd idea they'll get tired of travelling before then. They may arrive the latter part of August. They'll be glad to see a little home life once more."

"Friends of yours, Mrs. Bunker?" inquired Glen, with a slight frown.

"Yes; Lord Canning and his uncle, Lord Nelson Stafford. They belong to a representative noble English family. I met them at Cannes last year—"

"Lord Canning is a very distinguished looking gentleman," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"His face inspires trust, if I'm not mistaken," remarked her husband.

"I promised to show him the sights," said Indiana, with a mischievous smile.

"How kind and disinterested of you," remarked Glen, in a very sarcastic voice.

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Indiana.

"I mean you intended to make an impression on him, by the time you were through with the sights," answered Glen, with a pale face.

"And supposing I did," said Indiana, provokingly. "It wouldn't be the first time I have made an impression, nor will it be the last."

"Oh, well, I suppose you must have someone to flirt with," said Glen, resignedly.

"Now, children, don't quarrel! You know what that New York oracle said: 'Rest and quiet.'"

"I never flirted with you," said Indiana.

"I should hope not," answered Glen, in a very dignified manner.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I intend to be taken seriously, or not at all."

They all gasped at this temerity from such an unexpected quarter. Stillwater peeped at Indiana from under the corner of his handkerchief.

"No man has ever yet dictated to me," said Indiana, majestically.

"It's more than I'd do," murmured Stillwater.

"Men are generally only too glad if I will tolerate them on any terms," continued Indiana.

"Well, I'm not like others; but never mind, Indiana—that's true enough—I ought to be glad to be tolerated on any terms." He smiled resignedly around on the circle. He was afraid he had gone too far. At all events, their little skirmishes generally ended this way. Indiana felt a slight misgiving as she took up her book again. Glen, her slave and comrade, was one person, but Glen, who wished to be taken seriously, with a pale set face and glowing eyes, was another.

"What are you making, ma?" inquired Stillwater.

"A little woolen cape, with a darling hood attached, for Indiana. Just to put on her when she's roaming after dinner in the mountains. It's so chilly there, when the sun goes down."

"You're always making something for her," said Stillwater.

"She's the best mother I ever had," remarked Indiana, proudly fingering her little dimity skirt.

Mrs. Stillwater blushed with happiness, and looked with almost tearful love on this child, who showed such unparalleled appreciation of her mother's efforts.

"Sing 'My Georgia Lady Love,' Glen!" said Mrs. Bunker.

Glen struck a few notes on his mandolin and sang in a very pleasing baritone.

"My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen,

How your brown eyes do shine like stars above,

There's not a girl can equal you,

My Georgia Lady Love—Love."

"Kitty, you were never so welcome in your life," said Stillwater, as Kitty appeared with the tea-tray. She was followed by a farm-hand carrying a table and a camp-stool. Mrs. Bunker seated herself, and commenced pouring out the tea.

"Go ahead with the second verse, Glen!"

"One day I said, 'I love you, Sue,

Believe me, gal, I will be true.'

She slowly dropped her head,

And then she softly said:

'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.

My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen."

"There's a circus to-night," volunteered Kitty.

"Circus!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.

"Oh, I want to go," said Indiana.

"Let's stuff the big hay wagon full of straw and pillows," cried Mrs. Bunker. "It's full moon; we'll have a grand ride, eh, Ratio?"

Ratio looked visibly delighted.

"Well, you know what he said, 'Rest and quiet.'"

"Pa, you're forever quoting that old mummy," said Indiana. "He's like the ghost in Hamlet. It's settled; we'll go."

"Well, what's the matter, Kitty? Got anything on your mind?"

"No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited me to the circus, and I'd like to go, if the ladies don't object."

"Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater, with an amiable wave of his hand. Kitty left the orchard in high glee.

"She did well to ask you, instead of me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "That girl's too fond of pleasure."

"Now grandma—we were young ourselves, once."

"Speak for yourself, Ratio. I'm going to the kitchen to make some taffy. There's just enough time for it to cool. We'll take it along and give it to all the youngsters."

"Well, ma, there's a nice breeze blowing, the sun's going down. What do you say to a short spin?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, get ready. I'll have the buckboard here in five minutes." He rose, shaking off the blossoms which powdered his coat like snow.

"There's some on your hair, ma; they're so pretty."

Indiana rose lazily from the grass, also shaking off a shower of blossoms, and leaned against a low-spreading apple tree, extending her arms on the branches each side of her.

Glen gazed at her, still thrumming his mandolin.

"Do you think you'll come to Narragansett with us, this summer?" said Indiana, looking idly up through the branches.

"What for?" said Glen, gloomily. "To see you dance and flirt with a lot of—of simpering idiots."

Indiana laughed. Every time she moved, the blossoms fell upon her shoulders, neck and hair.

"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"

"Not with other men."

"Oh, that's selfish!"

"Maybe," said Glen.

There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.

"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."

Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick shower which followed.

"You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a Dryad—or something."

"Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."

"I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen, watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made for you, with your hair hanging like that—I always liked your hair hanging—do you remember, Indiana?"

"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."

"It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our good times."

"But it wasn't, Glen?"

"No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more—the woman. Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts. You were very apt at that business, for one so young."

"You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."

"That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal maneuvers."

They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.

"I fought shy of you for awhile, then—I was young and unworldly." From Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed the difference in me?"

"Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."

"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."

"That's nonsense! We can't be girl and boy forever. There's something else in life—I suppose."

"What?" said Glen.

"I don't know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it's individual. People must discover it for themselves—"

"Have you?" asked Glen.

"No," answered Indiana.

"I have," said Glen.

"Tell me."

"Not now."

"This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must see the world, must be of the world. I don't believe in a groove."

"Your mother did," said Glen.

"How can you compare me to ma? She's the old-fashioned type, bless her heart!"

"Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what we have. This is one day out of life. There'll never be another like this—not just like this. The blossoms are going—"

"They'll come again, next year," said Indiana.

"Yes, but we may be different, that's the trouble. I'd like to keep this day—everything is so young and tender and spring-like—and you're part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our heads—there's a soft, pink light on the whole orchard—it's shining down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an artist—the best in the world—living hereabouts. I'd jump on my wheel, and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it would be even too late—to catch this light. I'd have him paint the whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms—that glow on your face. I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

[Illustration: "I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"
(missing from book)]

"And you, Glen? You wouldn't be in it at all."

"I'd own the picture," said Glen.

A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away.

"The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do with yourself this summer, if you don't go with us to Narragansett?"

"I'll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I'll join you on our old hunting grounds—if you want me—"

"Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren't there."

Glen smiled gratefully.

"How are the folks?"

"Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."

"I'll ride over there to-morrow."

"They'll be glad to see you. They love you just—just like a daughter."

"I like people to love me," said Indiana.

"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard.

"Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!' He didn't make allowances for a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn't think it was going to be such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they laid the mandolin down on the grass.

"Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply.

"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."

"I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously.

"I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.

"Not now; but don't you think you could?"

"No, Glen."

"Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love me—"

"Glen, it's no use—I've known you too long."

"Indiana, you don't know what you're saying—you're killing me, Indiana!"

"Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly.

"Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana—you're the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language—the greatest ever written—it would be mere print, wouldn't it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; don't you understand?"

"Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You're too much a part of the old life—"

"The old life, Indiana? Isn't that the best life?"

"Not for me."

"You don't know what you're saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad."

"You're a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!"

"Won't you think about it, Indiana?"

"No, dear! I hate to say it—but I want to be straight with you. Something tells me it's not the right thing for us to marry. Don't say any more—don't try to persuade me—it's no use."

"All right, Indiana."

"Don't look like that, Glen! you'll break my heart. Life isn't over for you, because—of this. It's a beautiful world still—look at the blossoms, look at the day!"

"It's not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It'll never be the same."

"Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don't want to lose you, Glen; you'll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"

"Do you remember when I went to the war, Indiana? You gave me a lock of your hair, and I carried it over my heart. It was a charm, a little yellow lock—it brought me back to you alive. You cried when you gave it to me, and said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"

"And I say it now! Wherever we both happen to be, until I die, 'God keep you, Glen!'" She broke down, and sobbed on his breast.

He smoothed her hair mechanically, murmuring, "A little yellow lock—I carried it over my heart, always. They might have found it if I hadn't come back. I wish that I hadn't, now—I wish that I hadn't!"

"Glen! What are you saying?" She held her hand over his mouth. "We'll go on just the same; you mustn't say anything to the others. We'll keep our own secret, and you'll come to the camp this August?"

"It'll never be the same," repeated Glen, monotonously.

Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting to Jim Tuttle.

"I must be getting home," said Glen stupidly, like a person just awakened from sleep.

"Why, aren't you going to the circus, Glen?"

"Circus?"

"Don't break up the party!"

"All right, Indiana."

It was not a merry circus party, as far as the younger members were concerned, but the others were lively, and failed to see anything strange in their behaviour. Indiana asked someone to dare her to jump down in the ring, and ride better than the lady equestrian, but they all wisely refrained from doing so. Glen sat in the center of the wagon and tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the amusement of the party. They dropped him at his own gate, to which they drove, singing hilariously, Kitty bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim Tuttle.

"Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called a voice from one of the farm-house windows.

"It's father," said Glen.

"Hello, Masters!"

"Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"

"Well, I don't believe in too much of a good thing; good-night."

"Good-night; good luck to you all."

"Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.

Glen leaned against the gate after they had gone, listening to their voices in the distance.

"Have a good time, Glen?"

"Yes, father!"

The window closed. Glen laughed bitterly, leaning against the gate; then the laugh changed to a sob.

"I don't want much, I ask so little, dear God; only Indiana."

CHAPTER V.

Camp Indiana.

"I'm tired of the model farm. I wouldn't care to spend another spring here."

"Indiana, your love of change will bode you no good, some day."

"I come by it honestly, Grandma Chazy—you're always on the go."

"Don't compare yourself to me, Indiana. I'm an old woman."

"You'd be hopping mad, if anyone else called you that."

"I can take a privilege which I wouldn't allow to others," said Mrs. Bunker, sweetly. "I mean I'm an old woman compared to you, Indiana; I have experience and discretion, to back up my roving spirit."

"Em—n!" said Indiana.

She was lying on a nest of pillows, reading, surrounded by dormer windows, in one of the upper rooms of the farm-house.

"Look at pa out there in the rain with his rubber coat and hat. He's a sight! Wonder if Glen will be over to-day."

"Appears to me, you're always looking for Glen."

"There's no one else to look for, here, is there?"

"Girls your age generally do attach themselves to the man who's around."

"I'm no more attached to Glen than I ever was. Everybody likes him. He's a good fellow."

"That's true. Do you think you'll marry him?"

"What's your opinion on that matter, Grandma Chazy?"

"I think you'd regret it all your life; he's only a boy."

"Yes, but he's a good fellow."

"You said that before."

Glen had kept away for a week or so after the moonlight circus party, and in that time became morbid and melancholy. Indiana dominated him completely. He racked his brain, hour after hour, trying to remember the exact words in which she had uttered such and such a remark, with her exact tone of voice and the exact expression of her eyes at the time. Sometimes in his sleep he heard her calling "Glen dear! Glen dear! Glen dear!" her childish name for him, in a helpless, frightened voice. He would awaken with a terrible fear that she might be ill or in trouble. Compared with this awful anxiety oppressing him in the night, his past misery seemed nothing. He resolved that if Indiana only kept well and happy he would ask nothing more of life. Again, he heard her laughing in his dreams, mockingly, tantalizingly; laughing, laughing, laughing, until his brain reeled, and he thought, "This is the laugh that drives men mad." Then, when taking bicycle rides on the moonlight nights of his week's absence, her face seemed to flash upon him suddenly in dark places, like that of a sweet ghost. Haunted like this, the idea of seeing her in reality once more was like the conventional promise of Heaven. He resolved to resume their old footing. "Indiana wishes it, and anything is better than not to see her." He appeared again at the model farm, humble and deferential to Indiana's slightest wish, grateful for her every look and word. With her tender heart and warm sympathies she pitied him intensely. She tried to establish their old comradeship. The loyal little soul hated to lose a friend.

Glen felt life was worth living once more. There is a magic flower, tiny, and blue as the sky. This is the forget-me-not bloom of hope. It sheds a sweet and subtle fragrance which enchants the soul, and charms the eyes, so that they see a wonderful light on all things. But when the flower perishes, there is an end to the spell. The glamour fades before the eyes, the soul is seized with an aching grief. But the witch-flower of hope will bloom again, if it is not plucked by the root.

"I'm getting a little bit tired of it myself, here," remarked Mrs. Bunker. "Well, it'll be time to pack up soon; I expect to enjoy myself this summer."

Indiana, watching the rain, forebore to answer. There were times when Mrs. Bunker's constant desire for pleasure rather palled on her.

Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside resort proved to be merely a repetition of other summers. Indiana enjoyed herself, after the manner of the young and thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting, and laughing. But after the glare of the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on the shore, after falling asleep every night to the echoes of the very latest dance music, mingled with the eternal dash of the waves, the woods beckoned her invitingly.

It was the middle of August before the Stillwater's were installed in the mountains. They arrived at the primitive station early in the morning, and were met by one of the two guides yearly engaged for the season. There was a large mountain wagon, without a cover, awaiting them, and a pair of fresh-looking ponies. Indiana jumped up nimbly, and took the reins, while Haller, the guide, packed in the rest of the family and Kitty, all looking rather sleepy, from their all-night travel. The other servants had preceded them by some days.

"All right!" shouted Indiana, starting at a brisk trot. It was only twenty minutes' drive from the station to a landing, where they were met by a trim little naptha launch with "The Indiana" painted newly, in bright letters, upon the prow. She puffed slowly up one of the largest lakes in the Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the mountains. The latter are higher in this particular region, the scenery wilder than elsewhere. Nature had designed a beautiful color scheme from the lake; the rich, vivid green of the banks, fretted with enormous rocks and crags, the darker background of the immediate mountains, in their funereal dress of pine and balsam, and beyond the pale tracery of the distant ranges. It was a dull morning, and the grey atmosphere gave a touch of desolation to the wild environment of the lake.

"It's lonesome as the grave," said Mrs. Bunker. "Throw me that cape, please, Mr. Haller. I'm chilly."

"Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain contortion of his serious face, which was intended for a smile. "Waal, 'tis cool, mornin's."

"How are the evenings? Cold, I suppose?"

Haller cogitated for the space of five minutes. No one answers a question thoughtlessly in these regions; and after sojourning there some time, one learns not to interrogate at random. "Waal," he said at length, "'tis cool evenin's."

"None of the leaves have changed yet," said Indiana, after closely inspecting the banks on either side.

"No; they ain't changin'. Waal, thar's bin no frost, ter speak of—thar's bin no frost, ter speak of."

"Is it going to storm?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a heavy plaid shawl wrapped about her.

Haller looked at the sky. "Waal, not yet awhile."

"Indiana, your hat!" cried Mrs. Bunker. A gust of wind had torn it off her head. Haller deftly rescued it from the lake and restored it to Indiana in a dripping condition. She sat bare-headed, enjoying the outlook, the moist wind blowing her hair in large rings around her face.

"We're in for it," said Mrs. Bunker. When they started, the lake had been grey and calm. Now, it was gradually darkening, and dotted here and there with white-caps.

"Are yer skeert?" said Haller, looking at Mrs. Bunker with one of his contortions.

"No," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "but I want to get to the camp."

"Waal, we're goin' there," said Haller, calmly.

In a little while they came in sight of the boat-house, elaborately rustic, and pretty in design. Near it was planted an enormous flag-staff, from which waved a white flag bearing the name "Camp Indiana" in red letters.

Camp Indiana, christened after the only daughter of the owner, was the usual log structure, but capacious in dimensions, with a luxurious interior. There were many adjuncts in the way of out-buildings and summer-houses, glimpses of which could be caught between the trees. The camp owed much to art, but rejoiced in one supreme, natural beauty. This was a giant balsam tree which Stillwater could not bring himself to cut, and, therefore, had been used in the construction of the camp itself. The huge trunk supported the balcony, and the lower branches were entwined in the rustic railing. Thence it rose, screening the front windows up to the very roof, above which it towered paternally. Birds innumerable made their homes in the branches, and chipmunks in the moss-covered trunk. Every summer the little creatures ran nimbly along the lower limbs, peeping curiously at the sharers of their home; and young birds, essaying to fly, met with mishaps and fell into the camp with broken wings and legs. The latter were a great solicitude to Indiana. She nursed them carefully, with a knowledge founded on similar cases in the Rocky Mountains. There, she had gained much experience with birds and animals.

Though it was blowing strongly on the lake, there was no wind at the camp. No matter how the elements rage, there is quiet among the trees, except for a sighing whisper, to which one could fall asleep.

"Em—n!" said Mrs. Bunker, taking a survey when she reached the balcony. "Enough to give one the blues."

There was a huge deer-head over the entrance, a trophy of Stillwater's first year in the Adirondacks. The large hall was decorated with many other trophies from the Rocky Mountains and elsewhere. Wild skins of every description strewed the polished floors throughout the camp. Logs crackled brightly in the great, deep fire-place of the hall, as they entered, emitting an odor of pine. The large, brown eyes of an elk gazed beneath the branching antlers mildly down on the fire. A short, wide flight of stairs was broken by a balcony over the hall. From the railing hung an antique, Persian silk rug, upon which the fire played richly. Beneath the stair-case and each side of the fire-place were deep niches, comfortably furnished with pillows, of which red was the prevailing tone. Graceful jars of old pottery decorated the shelves above, with here and there a brilliant cluster of peacock's feathers, or the rich plumage of a stuffed bird, to relieve the dullness of the clay. This decoration was repeated in all the lower rooms, of which there were many, one opening into the other, giving a vista of fire-lit interiors, the flames catching an occasional flash of color from a red pillow or an Oriental scarf hanging carelessly from a shelf. The camp resounded to the crackling of logs with the accompanying, healthy perfume of the burning pine. Indiana ran through all the rooms, looking out of every window upon the lake. Those of her own room opened directly into the balsam tree which ornamented the front of the camp. This room had been built entirely of white maple. There was simple furniture of the same wood. The gleaming white walls and ceiling served as a background for a continuous Bacchanalian dance of shadows, cast by the branches of the giant balsam screening the windows. Here, also, logs crackled cheerily in a deep, wide fireplace, tiled with white onyx, which reflected the flames in fitful opaline gleams. White bear rugs strewed the floor. Indiana, as she looked around her, had visions of frosty, October mornings, when she had put her feet unwillingly out of bed into the warm fur, and hopped over the intervening space of cold floor to the fire. She remembered awakings, when a breath of balsam air swept like a cool hand across her forehead. Open windows and fires were Mr. Stillwater's strict injunctions at the camp. Indiana, for one, obeyed him. She had often opened her eyes to see a chipmunk sitting on its haunches, regarding her curiously. And birds were in the habit of flying around her little nest and out again to their own nest in the tree. She stood for a moment by the fire with a sense of glad content to be once more in this white, balsam-scented room. Then she ran into her mother's room, and into that reserved for Glen. On the mantel were portraits of his mother and father. They had insisted on his leaving some of his belongings there last year, saying that if he did so, he would be sure to come again. Indiana inspected the portraits. "I'm glad they're here," she thought. "It'll be a welcome for him."

Mrs. Bunker stood warming her hands by the hall fire. "The dampness isn't off the rooms yet."

"They've bin closed s'long, yer see," said Haller, lighting his pipe in the doorway. "Waal, I opened up everything, lettin' in the sun, soon as I knowed yer was comin'."

"Now that he's lit his pipe," thought Mrs. Bunker, "it won't go out while we're here."

He stalked leisurely through the rooms, throwing a fresh log on every fire, and looking about proudly, as though he could well be congratulated upon his preparations.

"Everything looks very nice, Henry," said Mrs. Stillwater, "just as if we left yesterday."

Another pipe saluted Mrs. Bunker at the entrance. It belonged to the second guide, who was somewhat brisker in appearance than Haller.

"Waal, haow d'ye find things lookin', ma'am?" he said, with a cheery laugh.

"They're looking all right, William," answered Mrs. Bunker, graciously. She liked him better than Haller, who had an irritating effect on her.

"Will it be a good season for deer?" said Indiana, running down the stairs.

William puffed slowly and seriously.

"It's going ter be a good season for deer," he said.

"Oh, I hope so," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker. "I promised those Englishmen good hunting."

"If they come, there'll be good hunting, Grandma Chazy," said Indiana, moving close to her, and looking significantly into her eyes. Mrs. Bunker laughed vivaciously.

"Ther' comin' down ter drink," volunteered William.

"Already!" exclaimed Indiana, with a laughing glance at Mrs. Bunker.

"Waal, thar' ain't bin no rain ter speak of—the springs is dryin' up on the mauntings."

"Y—es!" corroborated Haller, joining them with Mrs. Stillwater. "Ther comin' down ter the lakes."

"Poor things!" said Mrs. Stillwater.

"Do you pity them, Grandma Chazy?" whispered Indiana, "I don't mean the deer."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker. "Wholesale slaughter isn't the word."

Glen joined them soon after their arrival, but not before Indiana had written him a special letter inviting him to come. He had a certain pride where she was concerned. They roamed the woods together, renewing acquaintance with all their old haunts, or rowed and fished on the lake for hours with Haller and William. Mrs. Bunker and her daughter did not share their enthusiasm for these sports. They enjoyed the lake only in pleasant weather, when they made trips in "The Indiana" with a guide. Sometimes they were met at the landing by the comfortable and airy mountain wagon and the fresh mountain ponies, to take them for one of the beautiful drives in which that county abounded. Occasionally, Indiana and Glen would join them, changing off with the reins.

"I'd like to write to the Smiths," said Mrs. Bunker, one morning. "I promised to invite them up here. But you're so half-hearted about it, Indiana. All you care for is to roam about with Glen." She was standing on the balcony of the boat-house, and did not see Glen below on the dock. He smiled grimly.

"I can't blame her for one, Mrs. Bunker," he called up, good humoredly.

Indiana laughed. She was sitting in a boat. After having assumed several positions in order to ship water, she was now very busy bailing it out with a large sponge.

"No offense, Glen," said Mrs. Bunker.

"None whatever," returned Glen, emerging, and bowing elaborately.

"The two of you are like a couple of Indians," she continued.

"Here's Haller with the mail," cried Indiana. He rowed swiftly towards them in a light, narrow guide-boat. Indiana took the letters.

"I brought a letter for yer," shouted Haller to Mrs. Bunker.

"Then why didn't you deliver it?" answered Mrs. Bunker sharply.

"She tuk it," he answered, chuckling.

Indiana stood up in the boat, balancing herself admirably, and flung the letter to Mrs. Bunker, then sat down examining the other letters and papers in her lap.

"Nothing for you, Glen."

He overturned a boat and seated himself upon it, smoking a pipe. Naturally dark, he was burnt several shades darker, from his hair to the loose, open collar of his flannel shirt.

"You're sitting right in the water, Indiana. Your feet must be soaking wet. Your mother ought to see you."

Indiana looked at him with a laugh. He remembered her blue eyes had given him that same arch glance as a child, when he had discovered her in some act of mischief.

"You always liked to put your feet in the puddles," he said.

"Yes, I always had a passion for puddles. As Grandma Chazy would say, 'it'll bode me no good, some day.'"

"It's from Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker.

"Indeed!" said Indiana, affecting an English accent.

"They'll be with us in a few days, Indiana."

"Charmed!" said Indiana, standing up in the boat, and screwing up her face in imitation of Lord Stafford with his monocle.

Glen laughed heartily at the expense of Mrs. Bunker's English friends.

"That's great, Indiana."

"You little rogue," cried Mrs. Bunker, "I won't have you ridicule my friends. Oh, I'm so delighted. You'll find them lovely company."

"Ya—a—as," drawled Indiana, with a bored expression, "delighted, I'm—" the rest was finished in the water, the boat capsizing suddenly. Indiana was near enough to the dock to throw out an arm to Glen, and he drew her up laughing, but drenched.

"I knew you'd do it, Indiana," cried Mrs. Bunker.

Indiana, still clinging to Glen, as the dock was slippery, smiled faintly, putting her hand to her side.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you, Indiana?" said Glen, anxiously.

"I twisted my side a little—I wanted to save myself, as I fell—that's all."

"What did she do, Glen?" called Mrs. Bunker.

Glen lifted her up in his arms, and carried her up to the camp.

"It was a punishment for making fun of people, wasn't it, Glen?" she said, lifting her little wet face from his breast. "Serves me right, don't it, Glen?"

"No, dear," he said, tenderly.

She tightened her arms about his neck. "You always took care of me, Glen," she said, childishly. His heart beat violently against the little soaking bundle. It was on his lips to say, "I always will, if you'll only let me, Indiana." But he refrained. Still, as he climbed, he felt he was mounting the goal where his heart could rest.

Mrs. Stillwater ran anxiously to meet them.

"It's nothing, Mary," cried Mrs. Bunker, "she was cutting up some of her pranks, and fell into the water."

"Just rub her side," said Glen, delivering his burden, "she sprained it a little, falling, and put some dry clothes on her. You feel all right, don't you, Indiana?"

"Yes, Glen; thank you," said Indiana, meekly.

Mrs. Bunker often remarked, "Indiana's always good, when she's sick."

"Now, Indiana," said that lady, after her granddaughter had been duly dried and dressed. "Shall I read you the rest of the letter?"

"Yes," said Indiana, lying on a couch before the fire.

"'We have enjoyed our tour exceedingly. My nephew has accumulated much information which will prove of scientific value—'"

"Oh, he's that sort, is he?" said Glen, who was seated in a niche by the fire. He rose, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and sauntered out on the balcony.

"Jealous already!" said Mrs. Bunker. Indiana laughed, looking into the fire.

"Go on with the letter, Grandma Chazy."

Glen looked up into the giant balsam. A chipmunk sat on one of the branches, watching him. It was one which he and Indiana had succeeded in making quite tame. He searched in his pocket for a nut. "Chip, chip, chip!" he called, holding out his hand. Indiana's words echoed in his ears. "You always took care of me, Glen," with all the innocent trust that they conveyed. "She's known me all her life," he thought, "there's no going against that. Now these Englishmen will come and spoil everything." He puffed savagely on his pipe, still holding out the nut to the chipmunk, who approached nearer and nearer. "I'll have to take a back seat, now, I suppose. I guess I'll get out of the way, altogether, for a little while. That'll suit me better." He caught sight of Haller, below, planting ferns. "Halloa!" he called.

Haller regarded him interrogatively.

"Any guides at liberty?"

Haller pulled thoughtfully on his pipe. Meanwhile the chipmunk grabbed the nut, and disappeared.

"Little rascal," said Glen.

"Thar's Burt."

"Tell him I want him for a week or two."

The morning of the day when Mrs. Bunker expected her guests, Glen signified his intention of a temporary departure.

"Why, you are not going to leave us, Glen?" asked Mrs. Stillwater, innocently.

"Oh, I'm just going off for a little sport."

"And when will you be back, Glen?"

"Oh, I'll be back in a week or so."

"I think it's real mean of you, Glen," said Indiana, pouting, "just as we're expecting company, and men, too—and Pa isn't here."

"Oh, there won't be any deficiency. Mrs. Bunker will see to that."

"You're right! There won't be any deficiency," and she added sweetly, "though I don't like to see you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bunker. Here's Burt for me, now." Burt was a blonde, stalwart young fellow, about Glen's own age. He rowed swiftly toward the boat-house, smoking the inevitable pipe. When he landed, he strapped one of those deep baskets the guides carry for provisions, on his back, and climbed up to the camp. Mrs. Stillwater hurried down to the kitchen, to assure herself that Glen was well provided for on his trip.

They all descended to the lake to see him go. When Indiana saw the accoutrements for departure; the fishing tackle, guns, and tent rigging, she commenced to envy the two young fellows going off together, and felt rather ill used to be left behind, to do the tame work of entertaining. Glen read her face, and was inwardly delighted.

"We're going to have a rare, good time, Indiana."

"I believe you," said Indiana, ruefully.

"Do you think there'll be enough provisions, Glen?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, anxiously.

Glen laughed. The laugh was echoed by Haller and William, who were assisting in the ceremony of seeing the young men off.

"We'll have plenty of game, and Burt's as fine as any French cook."

Burt took his pipe from his mouth with a flattered smile and a blush. He was as shy as some young girls.

"We'll feed on the delicacies of the season. And there's the canned stuff, which we'll reserve for emergencies." He grasped Mrs. Stillwater's hand.

"Don't you be afraid, Mrs. Stillwater. We won't starve."

"Oh, he won't starve, ma'am. I'll see to that," said Burt.

"When we're hungry, we'll come home." They both laughed heartily.

"Do you think there'll be good sport, Burt?" said Indiana.

Burt, sitting in the boat, arranging his paraphernalia, looked at her admiringly.

"There'll be sport," he replied.

"Oh, Glen; are you going to take your mandolin?"

"Why not? It'll cheer us up nights, by the fire."

Burt grinned in visible delight.

"Well, I won't say good-bye for such a short time." He shook them all by the hand. "Take care of yourselves."

"Good-bye, Glen—no, I won't say good-bye. I hope you'll have a good time, and come home safe."

"Thank you, Indiana." He waved his hat to all and jumped into the boat. Haller pushed them off.

Indiana ran down to the end of the dock and threw her arms out to Glen. "Oh, take me along!"

Burt stopped rowing.

"All right," said Glen, "there's room for you; will you come?"

"Yes," said Indiana.

"We'll take care of her, Mrs. Stillwater; won't we, Burt?"

"Why, of course," said Burt. "She won't starve—I'll see to that."

"Be off, the pair of you!" cried Mrs. Bunker. Burt took the oars again, laughing, while Glen flourished his cap, looking at Indiana, and Haller and William shouted sportsman's jokes from the shore.

"There they go," said Indiana, waving her handkerchief. She then sat down on the dock, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller. The strains of the mandolin floated to them over the water.

"Indiana, you look as though you hadn't a friend left. If I thought as much of a person as that, I wouldn't let him out of my sight."

"Well, Grandma Chazy, Glen's my best friend."

"And look at your mother! She's actually crying."

"Well, I hated to see him going off like that—I—I'm so fond of him."

"Ma's a good soul," cried Indiana, jumping up and throwing herself into Mrs. Stillwater's arms. "Yes, she is."

"Well, I am not disputing that, Indiana."

"He was so set on going," said Mrs. Stillwater, holding Indiana to her. "I think it was because of those Englishmen. He don't like strangers."

"A pity about him," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply. "Does he want to monopolize Indiana altogether? He went because he might be of some use for once. He could have livened things up a little nights with his mandolin, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so. Well, I'm just as well pleased. He might have been unmannerly or bearish."

"Not Glen!" said Indiana.

"Oh, Glen," repeated Mrs. Bunker, imitating her. Haller, who was washing out "The Indiana" and observing at the same time, gave vent to a long guffaw. Mrs. Bunker looked at him crossly. "I can't bear that Haller," she said, as they climbed up to the camp. "He's always making faces at me."

"When you think he's making faces, he's only smiling, I tell you," said Indiana. "He's a fine guide; what more do you want?"

"Wear your red dress to-night, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, ignoring this last remark.

"I think white is so much prettier for a young girl," suggested Mrs. Stillwater.

"Yes, that's the conventional thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "Well, let her look like a bread and butter miss—I have no objection."

"I don't want to look like a bread and butter miss," interrupted Indiana.

"Wear what your mother wishes, Indiana."

"Oh, I'm satisfied with anything," apologetically murmured Mrs. Stillwater. "Let the child please herself." She looked questioningly at her daughter. The latter, looking very self-important, declined to commit herself just then.

"Take your finger out of your mouth, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, sharply. "It's time you stopped that baby habit."

Indiana, whenever she was making a decision of any kind, still put her finger in her mouth as a help to thought.

Later, in her granddaughter's room, Mrs. Bunker said in the voice of an oracle. "Take my advice and wear your red silk, Indiana."

"He won't think it's loud?" asked Indiana.

"You're too much of a child to look loud in anything. But it will be so effective and a little audacious. That's what takes. He'll be sure to see you in that dress." And, as she went, she fired a last injunction, "wear your red silk; it'll hit him right in the eye."

CHAPTER VI.

Guests

Meanwhile the travellers were approaching their destination. They had compared the Hudson River with the Thames and the Rhine, and were now watching the forest tracts and the streams choked with logs awaiting the elements.

"Uncle Nelson," said Lord Canning, "this is the first time in my rememberance that I have visited people I did not know well, in a country I have never seen."

Lord Stafford glanced sleepily at his nephew from under his tweed travelling cap. They were in the smoking car. "There's a charm about everything fresh and new," he murmured. "That's what you're always saying, Thurston."

"There certainly is," said the other, eagerly. "I realize it in this fresh, young, healthy country. It has given me many new sensations. I felt quite old when I first came here—"

"Old!" repeated Lord Stafford. "You?"

"Just turned forty, my hair commencing to grey." Lord Canning laughed, and then sighed. "Yes," he continued, smoking thoughtfully, "there is nothing like fresh scenes. They give new food for the mind—another impetus to life—a man like myself needs such a stimulus—if I should continue to rust in England, I would shortly become—antiquated. Do you notice that the trees are for the most part conical in shape, Uncle Nelson?"

"You always were a restless character, Thurston."

"Nature designed me for an explorer."

"You'll never be satisfied until you undertake that expedition to the pole—"

"Never—unless—"

"Unless what?"

"A new interest should arise in my life—necessarily something very absorbing."

"I know of nothing, except—perhaps—a woman. And as for that, every mamma in England has despaired of you."

Lord Canning laughed heartily, and his uncle yawned and closed his eyes, considering he had satisfactorily disposed of the subject.

"We are strangers to our host," recommenced Lord Canning, after a short survey of the vanishing prospect. "The invitation was necessarily off-hand, but very hearty."

"They do everything in an off-hand way, over here," said Lord Stafford, "at least, so it seems to me."

"We have been travelling too much to judge very correctly of manners and customs," answered his nephew. "And have we met the entire family?"

"I believe so."

"Mrs. Bunker—"

"Mrs. Bunker!" exclaimed Lord Stafford, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Isn't she a lively woman?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater and daughter."

"The little girl," said Lord Stafford, sinking back on the cushions, "the little, blonde girl, who had plenty to say for herself."

"She did not really say so much," returned Lord Canning, taking out another cigar. "It was how she said it."

"Well, she conveyed the impression that she was not backward," remarked Lord Stafford.

"By the way, Uncle," the younger man lit his cigar, laughing amusedly. "Did I ever tell you of a peculiar dream I once had?"

"Dream?"

"About Miss Stillwater."

"Have you been dreaming about that little girl?"

"Didn't I tell you? I thought I had."

"Ha, ha, ha! You've been dreaming about little Miss Stillwater—that's rich."

"Well, wait until you hear it. Then you'll have good reason to laugh. It was quite too absurd."

"Well."

"The night before we started for the West—the night we met Mrs. Bunker at the Waldorf Hotel, in New York—"

"Mrs. Bunker—one never knows what that woman is going to say next—she is so—"

"She introduced us to the family, and Miss Stillwater and I had some conversation—not much, but quite enough, as you will see—about bears."

"Bears?"

"She had been used to shooting them, in the Rocky Mountains."

"The little girl—the blonde one?"

"The little blonde one," repeated Lord Canning, with a softer intonation. "Well, I dreamt I saw her riding on the back of a grizzly, over the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains. She was in full evening dress, and on seeing me, she hilariously waved a bunch of hyacinths—she carried those flowers the night I met her."

"Mrs. Bunker had carnations—I took one—ha, ha, ha!"

"I was on my knees examining strata. When I saw the lady riding towards me, I rose and bowed profoundly. But she returned my polite salute by throwing her bouquet directly in my face—I felt the blow, I smelt the hyacinths—then I awoke—before the lady apologized, allowing that she had that intention. It was all so absurd and incongruous, and yet so distinct. Miss Stillwater looked as natural as life, and sat the bear in such a graceful fashion—she might have been riding a finely bred horse in Hyde Park."

Lord Stafford, listening with closed eyes, made an articulate noise. Whether it was expressive of wonder, disbelief, or ridicule, it was difficult to say.

"But what I consider most remarkable, is that I saw the Rockies very much as I saw them in reality, later on. I explain this on the score of—suggestion. Miss Stillwater has spent some time in the Rockies. Naturally, our conversation recalled them to her mind, and she, of course, unconsciously suggested them to me. It was quite—psychic."

"Nightmare," murmured Lord Stafford, sleepily, "what did you eat for supper?"

"I don't know," said Lord Canning, disgustedly. "Don't attribute everything to what one eats."

"You will, when you're my age. Now it's 'suggestion', and 'quite psychic.' If that little, dainty, yellow-haired Miss Assurance had been an unattractive, elderly person, she wouldn't have suggested a pin's worth to you—beyond the fact that she was ugly. I must say, I never heard you go on like that before, Thurston."

"Go on like what?"

"Oh, about your dreams. Only old women tell their dreams. Ha, ha, ha!"

"You are quite mistaken, Uncle Nelson, dreams have been made the subject of scientific research."

"Oh, poppycock! You'll be telling fortunes in a tea cup next, ha, ha, ha!"

"I am glad you are amused, Uncle Nelson."

"I am—it's rich—ha, ha, ha, ha!—Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thurston, will you oblige me, and tell when there's anything to look at beside these interminable forests? I'm going to nap a little."

Lord Canning resumed his watch at the window. "Beautiful forests," he thought, "for the most part untouched and untrammelled. We seem to be plunging deeper and deeper into a virgin region. I feel strangely expectant, as though something were awaiting me there. Something that I have hitherto missed in my life—my sober, colorless life—awaiting me there. If I should tell Uncle Nelson this, he would ask me what I had eaten for lunch."

In a little while he became conscious that the train was slackening speed and felt the exhilaration, of most people, at the idea of being transported higher than the ordinary level.

"Uncle Nelson!"

"Yes."

"There is something else."

"What?"

"Clouds—ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Lord Stafford looked disgustedly out at the scurrying white masses.

"Do you want h'anything, your Lordship?"

"It's about time you showed up, Flash. Unstrap that plaid—it's beastly cold."

"It h'is, your Lordship—compared to the 'eat in New York," carefully tucking Lord Stafford into the plaid. Flash was a young fellow, of the ordinary English cockney type.

The train labored on painfully up into the heart of the mountains. Lord Stafford slept while his nephew smoked and mused, watching the clouds, barely perceptible now in the fading light.

They felt a jerk, the train stopped suddenly. Flash put his head in, "We're a h'our and a 'alf late, your Lordship. We won't h'arrive until h'eight o'clock."

"What an infernal nuisance."

"H'any h'orders, your Lordship?"

"Get out!"

When they finally arrived it was pitch black night, no moon nor stars. The rude little station was lit by torches flaming in the mist and wind. Beyond, impenetrable darkness. A storm was brewing over the mountains. Haller's face, as he greeted the travellers with one of his contortions, looked weird in the torchlight. They followed him out to the wagon, in which they sank with a sigh of relief. The trip, with the delay, had been tedious. Haller whipped the ponies up briskly. The wagon careered recklessly from side to side as they drove, and the wind drove the mist into their faces.

"I suppose you know your road, my good man?" said Lord Stafford.

"There's no risk of falling over a precipice or anything of that kind, is there? It's so confoundedly black."

Haller chuckled. "Them ponies know the're way—the've been bred up in these parts. I'd trust them sooner'n myself."

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"Is this our destination?" asked Lord Stafford, as they stopped at the landing.

"Oh, we ain't no ways near thar yet," said Haller, with another chuckle. He raised a lantern and showed them "The Indiana" waiting at the dock, the lake lapping against her sides.

"Must we get in that?" said Stafford, peering out into the darkness of the lake.

"Waal, yes; if you want ter go to Camp Indiana. It's at the far end of the lake."

"Camp Indiana!" repeated Lord Canning to himself. "After her, of course. They have a curious faculty over here, of naming people after places and vice versa."

"What sort of a boat is this 'ere, my man?" asked Flash, after they were installed and on their way.

"Naptha launch."

"No danger of explosion?" he asked, cheerily.

"Waal, yer never can tell—yer never can tell."

Lord Canning laughed heartily. As they puffed along, the wind commenced to wail dismally, echoed by the mountains, until it seemed as though a pack of wild beasts were howling in the night. At intervals a camp fire enlivened the prospect, blazing cheerily down on the shore. The shadow-dance of the flames on the water, together with the outlines of human forms feeding the fire, produced a fantastic effect on the travellers. At Camp Indiana an enormous fire had been kindled to welcome the guests. The boat-house was lit up with different colored lanterns. Haller shouted as they passed in the dock, and was answered by William, who hurried down and assisted the disembarking. Haller, holding the lantern, lit them up to the camp. A flood of light streamed from the open door, in which Mrs. Bunker stood.

"Well, here you are at last—so glad to see you."

She shook hands with them vigorously.

"My man Flash," said Lord Stafford.

"Kitty, show Mr. Flash the gentlemen's rooms. What a nuisance the train was late. The world stops when one comes up here."

Mrs. Stillwater met them in the hall. "I'm so pleased you have come," she said in her soft gracious voice.

"Thank you, Mrs. Stillwater."

"How do you do, Lord Canning?" said Indiana with a hearty shake of the hand. "Too bad the train was late. It's what you must expect in these primitive parts."

Lord Canning looked about him, receiving the impression of warmth, light and luxury, but no sign of primitiveness. Coming out of the darkness and the wind, into the brilliant hall, he was a little dazzled, and for the moment was at a loss for something to say to Indiana. He stared at the brilliant little figure standing near the fire, the flames reflecting red lights from her dress on her laughing face and her yellow hair, with the Persian rug for a background. "An Arabian night's vision," he thought.

"It's a tedious trip," said Indiana. "You must be starved to death."

"I am so interested in my surroundings, that I can plead no sense of fatigue," answered Lord Canning.

"This is a jolly fire," said Lord Stafford. "It's like a glimpse of heaven here, after that awful black night."

Mrs. Bunker shortly led the way to the dining room, where a shaded red drop-light threw a rosy glow on the well-equipped table, upon which reposed a centrepiece of wild ferns. The easy, natural manner of the hostesses soon made their guests feel perfectly at home.

"Don't hesitate to smoke, gentlemen!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, after dinner. "This is Liberty Hall."

"We didn't expect this, Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford, as they walked through the rooms, "when you invited us to 'rough it' with you in the woods."

"I assure you, Lord Stafford, that we consider this camping out," laughed Mrs. Bunker. "Now which chair are you going to take? This one is comfortable. Place it near the fire."

"Very artistic and most original," said Lord Canning, surveying his surroundings. "I have never seen anything like it."

There was a note of simplicity in all this luxury, even to the dress of the ladies, which struck him agreeably. Indiana sat in the midst of the group, talking and laughing unreservedly. Lord Canning, leaning back in a large armchair smoking his cigar, listened attentively, trying to find some clue to her character in the careless words. He finally realized this was foolish. She was evidently little more than a child, with no deep realization of life, as yet; a child with her own charm. There was no doubt of that. He gazed deeper and deeper into the fire.

"Lord Canning, you are so absorbed in the fire the rest of us might be jealous," said Indiana.

"There is no occasion for jealousy," he answered, looking directly at her. "But the fire is certainly fascinating—and productive of thought. I have a recollection of another, outside, which welcomed us very cheerfully, when we arrived. Is it still burning?"

"Oh yes," said Indiana, "our camp fire is still burning."

"I should like to see it, may I?"

"Certainly," said Indiana rising, "Lord Stafford, are you also curious?"

"Oh Miss Stillwater, I'm so comfortable, don't ask me to go out again! this is such a charming fire. Now Mrs. Bunker, let me poke it. This is the way we do it in England."

"Run along, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, sweetly.

Without, the night was still black, but the storm had not yet broken. The fire down on the shore lit up the lake and the boat-house. Haller and William were throwing on logs, and in the red glare Kitty could be seen standing, talking volubly to Flash, who listened with deferential interest.

"The boat-house looks very pretty in this light," said Lord Canning.

"There's such a cozy room in it with a fire," asserted Indiana. "We've had rare, old times there. We go down nights, and make things in chafing dishes."

"What a novel idea! And is there a fire burning there now?"

"Oh, yes! The guides keep the fires always going—when it's cold."

"I should like to see this cozy room, where you make things in chafing dishes. May I?"

"Certainly. Be careful, Lord Canning! It's pitch dark, and you don't know the way! There! I knew you'd stumble—you'd better take my hand."

"I—I really think I had better," said Lord Canning, helplessly.

CHAPTER VII.

The Weaver

The storm spent its full force in the night. The wind raged in the clearings and upon the lakes. But Camp Indiana, sheltered by the woods, heard nothing of the angry elements beyond the continuous sighing of the trees, which, when the wind was most fierce, grew into a painful sobbing whisper. The pines of the North Woods sing varied harmonies, always in a minor key; sometimes, it is a sacred anthem, sometimes a tragic prophecy, sometimes a death chant and sometimes a sad lullaby, such as a bereaved wife might croon to her child.

When the guests emerged upon the balcony in the morning the clouds still shrouded the mountains and the lake. There was nothing to be seen but a white mist.

"We are literally in the clouds," said Lord Canning pacing the balcony. "But what a soft rare air, and that strong odor of pine; it is most exhilarating." He drew a deep breath.

"What a magnificent tree," said Lord Stafford. "They've built it into the balcony. Look, Thurston! Isn't that a unique idea?" He bent over until his body was half in the tree. "By George, there's a chipmunk!"

"Balsam!" exclaimed Lord Canning, examining a branch. He ascended the steps looking up at the tree. "Magnificent! A natural ornament! What a novel thought to make it a part of the house. I am reminded of the roof-tree of olden times, Uncle Nelson."

"Quite so!" said Lord Stafford.

"Look!" continued his nephew. "The clouds are rising—slowly. There is the lake! How blue, and what beautiful slopes—how rich in foliage. Such a contrast in greens; the vivid emerald of the maple trees, with the dark shade of the hemlock and other pine varieties—there is no green like theirs—and that faint, very faint touch of red, here and there—a foretaste of Autumn. Look at those wild crags, with the trees rooted in their clefts! This is a panorama of clouds. How systematically they rise, one veil after the other. The mountains are just becoming perceptible—do you see their shadowy outline behind that last thin veil? It is rising—slowly—slowly. Little fragments of mist are floating everywhere. Upon my word, it is quite unreal—like a dream scene."

"Ha, ha, ha! I'd advise you not to broach the subject of dreams again."

"Charming! The dark, rich blue of those mountains, with the little mists curling upon them, here and there. That low cloud on the lake here, has remained stationary. Ah, now it is rising. Uncle Nelson, do you see anything?"

Lord Canning had suddenly discerned in the mist, the phantom outline of a female figure kneeling in a canoe.

"Yes, by George! Do you think it could be a peculiar form taken by the mist?"

"Either that—or—it might be the spirit of some unhappy Indian maiden, a heroine of one of the legends of this region. Ah, the sun is coming out—now we shall see her disappear!"

On the contrary, the sun striking through the mist revealed Indiana paddling a red canoe. Bareheaded, the sleeves of her red blouse rolled above the elbow, the sun caught her in a sudden flash of scarlet and gold, so that she seemed an apotheosis in the cloud, of Lord Canning's Indian maiden.

"It's Miss Stillwater!" cried his uncle. "Ha, ha, ha—you with your dreams and your Indian maidens."

Lord Canning rubbed his eyes, watching Indiana paddle toward the boathouse with swift, unerring strokes. "Let us go down and meet her!" he said.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, joining them, as they descended. "How did you sleep last night?"

"Extremely well, thank you, my dear lady," answered Lord Stafford. "I cannot speak for my nephew, he is addicted to dreams. Ha, ha, ha. That sort of sleeper is always rather restless. Don't you think so, Mrs. Bunker?"

"This," said Lord Canning, indicating the prospect, "is very charming, quite unique in its way. I really cannot remember seeing anything like it."

Lord Stafford slipped. "Be careful, Lord Stafford. It's the pine needles. They fall year after year. You see how soft and yielding they make the ground. But it's slippery on an incline."

They reached the boat-house in time to see Indiana jump from her canoe.

"An extremely picturesque little craft," said Lord Canning, after they had exchanged the morning greetings.

"Birch bark," said Indiana. "There's another here."

"Ah, a white one. But this red canoe is very effective on the lake. We were quite startled, when you first appeared. Were we not, Uncle?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. My nephew thought you were the spirit of some Indian maiden, who had died a tragic death."

"You glided out of the mist in such a wraith-like fashion," said Lord Canning.

"There was an Indian maiden"—

"Oh, keep those ghost stories for the camp fire, Indiana! Before breakfast is no time for them."

"Don't forget, please, Miss Stillwater!" said Lord Canning. "Positively at the camp fire to-night."

"At the camp fire to-night," repeated Indiana, in a tragic voice.

"Oh, Indiana can tell you any number of legends about these parts. She picks them up from the guides," said Mrs. Bunker.

"I am always interested in the legends of a country. There is so much to be gleaned from them."

"Exactly, Lord Canning," said Mrs. Bunker. "That's what I think."

"I shall look forward to hearing them all, Miss Stillwater," said Lord Canning, "by the camp fire of course. Every night a story."

"Like Scheherezade in the Arabian Nights," said Indiana, "amusing the sultan to save her head."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Quite so, Miss Stillwater," laughed Lord Canning.

"But I don't think my stories would last a hundred and one nights, Lord Canning," replied Indiana, putting her hands behind her back, and meeting his persistent gaze mischievously.

"Too bad," he answered, contemplatively. "I should hate to cut off that head. Don't you know anything else appropriate for a camp fire, which might serve to amuse me, and prolong your life. Can you tell fortunes?"

"Oh, Indiana's great at that!" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Good—by cards or consulting the palm?"

"Both!" said Indiana promptly. "Learned it from the girls at school. I can also tell your fortune in a tea cup."

"Indeed, you must initiate me."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha—I prophesied you'd come to it—telling fortunes in a tea cup. That's rich. Mrs. Bunker, I'll explain to you—later!"

"What does he mean?" asked Indiana.

"I'll tell you by the camp fire, Miss Stillwater. Can you interpret dreams?"

Lord Stafford laughed with intense enjoyment.

"I have a dream book, I'll study it up."

"Well, in view of your many accomplishments, your head will be quite safe."

"How about yours?" she said, shyly, bending down to take her jacket from the canoe.

"Ha, ha, ha! Quite so, Miss Stillwater."

"I'm not sure about mine," he answered, smiling.

"And if you lose it?"

"The Sultan will meet his fate philosophically, repeating, 'Kismet, and Allah is wise, saith the Prophet.'"

"Breakfast is served," exclaimed Kitty, running breathlessly into the boat-house.

"You must be hungry," said Mrs. Bunker. "You were up so early. Indiana rises at an unearthly hour, here. She's on the lake at six, sometimes."

"Do not be surprised if you should see me also at that unearthly hour, Miss Stillwater. I, too, have a passion for early rising, in a place like this! There are some beautiful boats here!"

"Yes, this is a St. Lawrence. I always take ma out in that. She likes it, because it's steady. But it don't run like this one—this is my pet. A real Adirondack cedar wood."

"Indiana," read Lord Canning. "Everything here is named after you. You're the prevailing spirit of the place. Will you take me out on the lake after breakfast, and teach me how to manage an Adirondack boat?"

"This is a dangerous lake, Lord Canning," said Mrs. Bunker. "You wouldn't think so, to look at it now."

Lord Canning turned and glanced at the beautiful vista of the lake, sparkling, blue and serene, between the mountains.

"A squall can come up, any minute—a regular tornado—and blow you and your shell of a boat to Jericho."

"And what would you do, Miss Stillwater," asked Lord Canning, in visible alarm, "if you were out in your little canoe, and were caught in one of these sudden squalls?"

"Head for the shore. Besides, I'm a swimmer."

"Are you?" She looked very young to him, standing there in her little, short skirt and loose blouse, her hair blowing about in the breeze, which came freshly over the lake. Younger, even, than when he had first seen her.

"Now, Lord Stafford," said Mrs. Bunker, after breakfast. "You, my daughter, and myself, will take a trip in 'The Indiana.' The horses will be waiting at the landing, and after we have explored the lake, I think we'll have time for a short drive. Will that program suit you?"

"Ha, ha, ha! Everything that you arrange is bound to be delightful, Mrs. Bunker."

"We'll leave the young people to their own devices. Lord Canning is so bent on learning to row an Adirondack boat."

"Ha, ha, ha! Yes, Mrs. Bunker."

"It's a dangerous lake, Lord Stafford—I warned him."

"You did, Mrs. Bunker—your conscience can rest easily."

"I feel I'm taking an advantage, Miss Stillwater," said Lord Canning, lounging comfortably in the bow of Indiana's pet boat, "to sit here and let you do all the work. Let me take the oars. I have been watching you closely—I think you can trust me."

"Sit down!" commanded Indiana.

"Dear me, what have I done?"

"You can't change places in an Adirondack boat, in the middle of the lake. It would tip over, and we'd both flop in." She laughed merrily.

"Her laugh has the vital ring of youth," thought Lord Canning. "I might learn to laugh like that again, if she would teach me—"

"Glen and I have often tried it, just for devilment, but then Glen is more used to these boats than you, Lord Canning—"

"Glen!"

"Oh, I forgot. I think everyone knows Glen—everyone does in America, who happens to know us. He's one of the family."

"A relative?"

"No!"

"Not a relative, and one of the family," thought Lord Canning. "Young, old or middle aged?"

"Glen's only twenty-four and handsome as a picture."

"Only twenty-four, and handsome as a picture," thought Lord Canning.

"Wouldn't you like to smoke, Lord Canning?"

"There's something of the witch about you, Miss Stillwater. That's just what I'm longing to do. You are sure you don't mind?"

Indiana shook her head. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling from the exercise.

"That's very good of you, Miss Stillwater." He lit his cigar leisurely, then leaned back with a long sigh of content. "You're a splendid oarswoman, Miss Stillwater; such long, graceful strokes. That splash of color here and there in the woods—it's most effective—especially, when it's reflected in the lake—like this branch—look—we are just nearing it—how gracefully it droops over the water. It's most delightful here—near the shore—let us linger a little while—do you mind? There's no occasion for this terrific speed, is there? That's better—now we are merely gliding. Lean back, Miss Stillwater! Won't you have this pillow? Are you quite comfortable? Are you sure you are quite comfortable? These Adirondack oars are very convenient—just let them swing—I see—and take them up when you are ready. A stroke or two, now and then, will be quite sufficient to send us along—not yet—don't disturb yourself. No, we will not run into anything—I'll see to that—you look very nice lying there. The water is like a perfect mirror here, under the trees—every leaf and twig is reflected—beautiful—so restful—I could drift like this—"

"I thought so," cried Indiana jumping up.

"Dear me, what is the matter?"

"We're caught in a tree!"

"Why so we are—be careful—that branch will strike your face—I think I can reach it—a most obstinate branch—it persists in bending your way. Well, I can't blame it—there—how ever did this occur?"

"Why—you insisted on my leaving everything to you—I yielded from pure amiability—but I foresaw what would happen, because you hadn't the slightest idea where you were drifting."

"But I know quite well, where I'm drifting—"

"Then how were we caught in this tree?"

"Ah, that's another story—"

"You were certainly not looking ahead."

"Then where was I looking? You ought to know."

"You were lying back with your hands clasped behind your head, saying, 'I could go on like this forever,' or something to that effect, and we went plump into the tree."

"Poor Miss Stillwater—I'm a great trial—you'll never take me out again, will you?"

"Well, I won't say that—"

"I'm so glad you didn't. I think it's rather a novel sensation to be caught in a tree."

"Everything is a sensation to you, Lord Canning."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha. When you are my age, Miss Stillwater, you will also appreciate a new sensation. May I ask the object of those violent efforts?"

"Lord Canning—do you realize you're on the tree as well as in it. There's an immense branch extending under the water, and with our combined weight we won't get off in a hurry."

"Where is the hurry—there are no trains to be caught, I believe."

"Yes, but I wanted to show you the lake this morning—that would be something. There is so much for you to do and see."

"Restless little American spirit," said Lord Canning. "Now if you will hand me that oar—although I appreciate your anxiety to show me everything without delay—I, with my slow English methods—prefer to take things by degrees—if you have no objection, Miss Stillwater; I am enjoying this immensely."

"Really," said Indiana doubtfully.

"I give you my word. Now let me have things my own way. There's no necessity to show me the whole lake at once. I would rather prolong the pleasure—"

"We're off!"