Girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire
Date: 2018-05-13T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Camp Fire Girls -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire

Author: Isabel Hornibrook

Illustrator: John Goss

Release date: May 13, 2018 [eBook #57154]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57154

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIRLS OF THE MORNING-GLORY CAMP FIRE ***

GIRLS OF THE MORNING-GLORY CAMP FIRE

BY

ISABEL HORNIBROOK

AUTHOR OF “CAMP AND TRAIL,” “FROM KEEL TO KITE,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN GOSS

BOSTON

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Published April, 1916
Copyright, 1916,
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
All Rights Reserved
Girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire
NORWOOD PRESS
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.

Dedicated to Ruth, Eleanor, and Margaret

The great burnished top was set to spinning madly upon a flat stone.

The author expresses her indebtedness to Dr. Frank G. Speck of the University of Pennsylvania and to Dr. Jacob D. Sapir for permission to reprint the nonsense-syllables and music of the Leaf Dance, from their records made among the Indians, published in “Ceremonial Songs of the Creek and Yuchi Indians.”

CONTENTS

I | A Strolling Piano
II | Playground Peacemakers
III | Captain Andy Takes Off His Hat
IV | The Lakeside Council Fire
V | A Miniature
VI | The Green Cross
VII | Mary-Jane Peg
VIII | The Sugarloaf
IX | Wood Gatherers Among The Dunes
X | The Astronomer
XI | Kullíbigan
XII | Floured Glass
XIII | Wind Against Tide
XIV | The Castaway
XV | In the Quicksands’ Grip
XVI | The Sun-Dollar
XVII | A Monogram on a Coin
XVIII | The Torch Bearer

ILLUSTRATIONS

The great burnished top was set to spinning madly upon a flat stone.

Her left hand had snatched at the dragging reins

“She won’t fail. She can’t! I see the red!”

“An’ you’ll laugh back at the fears, once you join the Morning-Glory Camp Fire”

On, ploughing on, through the wet, oozing sands

A large, antique silver coin of a size and stamp such as neither Boy Scout nor Camp Fire Girl had ever seen before

GIRLS OF THE MORNING-GLORY CAMP FIRE

CHAPTER I

A STROLLING PIANO

“Why did she choose ‘Morning-Glory’ as her tribe name?” asked Mŭnkwŏn the Rainbow of Sesooā the Flame, as Rainbow and Flame, with girlish arms entwining, stood beneath the shelter of the Silver Twins, two kingly birch-trees, so identical in stature even to their topmost jeweled crowns of leaves flashing in the July sun, so alike in the silver symmetry of each fair limb as to be named the Twins.

These silver kings were one-hearted, too, in their benevolent purpose in life, which was to unite in casting a brotherly shade over a certain corner of the broad city playground, dotted with children from every clime, and incidentally to fan the flushed cheeks of the two girls directly beneath them, bound together by a girdling rainbow that played about their waists, woven by the sun’s shuttle amid the quivering birch-leaves, fit symbol of their binding Camp Fire sisterhood.

Sesooā’s eyes danced, lit by a tiny golden flame that uncurled itself in their demure hazel like a firefly alighting on a brown leaf. She caught her lower lip between the pretty incisors that decorated the front of her mouth as she scrutinized the semi-distant figure of a sixteen-year-old girl—perhaps nearer to seventeen—clad in a loose lavender smock to her knees, whence to her ankles there was a gleam of white skirt, with the most bewitching, frilled summer “Tam” of lavender, matching her smock, shielding her brown head, sheltering her face, like the hood of a flower. This floral figure leaned against the open door of a handsome automobile which was standing upon the playground avenue.

“I’m sure it’s beyond me to tell why Jessica Holley (Jessica Dee Holley; she always likes to bring the unusual little middle name in, because it was her mother’s, I suppose), why she chose Welatáwesit, which is the only Indian equivalent she could find for Morning-Glory—literally meaning ‘Climbing Plant’ or ‘Pretty Flower’ for her Camp Fire name. But I believe there’s a story attached to the choice, some ‘cunning’ little anecdote of her childhood. Wish I could ferret it out! She seems, always, to have been called ‘Glory,’ nearly as much as Jessica,” answered Sesooā racily, she who in every-day life bore no flaming cognomen, but was plain little, gay little, Sally Davenport, as full of quips and quirks, of lightning impulses and sudden turns as the wheeling firefly in her eyes.

“Goody! I’d like to hear the anecdote, too. The Morning-Glory name suits her so well that I thought she must have dreamed it—that it came to her in sleep—as I dreamed mine,” laughed the Rainbow, whose rightful name when she was not clad in a leather-fringed robe of khaki, in moccasins and head-band, and seated by a Council Fire, was Arline Champion. “But I call it absurd, meanly absurd, that if there’s any story about her and her name, we should not hear it, we who have named our Camp Fire (and it’s the best in the city, too, though I say it myself!), our whole group or tribe of fourteen girls, after her,” she went on with a stamp of her foot on the playground sod and with rainbowed emphasis; she was the shell-tinted, demurely shining kind of fifteen-year-old girl who unconsciously aims at carrying a rainbow in her pocket, to brighten the dull or tear-wet day.

“Oh! we didn’t exactly ‘name it after her,’” demurred Sally. “She happened to come here last winter to visit those rich girls, the Deerings, who are all fluff an’ stuff; that exactly describes them, Olive and Sybil——” There was the least little green tinge of the spitfire about Sesooā’s flame now as she shot a glance toward two girls seated in the waiting automobile together with an older woman, evidently chaperon to the band of girls. “Oh! I say, pinch me; I shouldn’t have said that, should I, seeing that they brought us here in their car? But ’twas the first time they ever did it, though my father is head-bookkeeper in their father’s office at the Works; and I’ll engage ’twas Morning-Glory—Jessica—who suggested it, as we all wanted to visit this playground where there are so many foreign children, to see them dance their folk dances,” she ran on, speech flitting away from its starting-point in the wake of her firefly dance, which vivaciously hovered from one object or group of objects to another.

Arline waited for it to alight again on Jessica, as it presently did.

“Well! as I was saying,” reverted Sally, “you remember how she came here last February just when we were beginning to organize our Camp Fire group, when we had secured Miss Darina Dewey as Guardian (I think she’s a love of a Guardian and I like her unusual first name, too, though some of the girls don’t!) but before we had applied for our Charter, when we were searching for a name for our new Camp Fire circle, raking over Indian names like leaves until—goodness! we seemed half-smothered in them.” Sally paused for breath, breathlessly smothered, indeed, by the sunlit torrent of her own words, which had a trick of inundating a listener.

“It was at our second meeting, I think, at Miss Dewey’s house,” she went on, “that Jessica came in, all snow an’ sparkle from her eyes to her toes, and introduced herself by showing a transfer card signed by the Guardian of a Camp Fire circle in a small town in Pennsylvania to which she had belonged, the Akiyuhapi Camp Fire.”

“The Are-you-happy Camp Fire! Sounds just like that!” put in Arline, rainbowed with mirthful memory. “Jessica told us that she had already been initiated as a Wood Gatherer and showed her silver fagot ring. But we were a little flabbergasted, weren’t we, when she sprang her Indian name on us, by which she had chosen to be known among Camp Fire circles: Welatáwesit; it sounded musical as she pronounced it, but it seemed a mouthful! She partly explained it (d’you remember?) by saying that when she was choosing her symbolic name—as all Camp Fire Girls do—she wanted, for a special reason which she kept to herself, to take that of a flower, Morning-Glory. And that Penobscot Indian word was the nearest she could get to it, the morning-glory not being originally a native plant.”

“Yes, and it was at that very meeting, after we had welcomed Jessica with open arms as a Camp Fire Sister”—thus Sally again took up the fascinating thread of reminiscence—“that when each girl had told her symbolic name, Indian or otherwise, and how she came to choose it to express some special wish or aim, that we fell back upon digging for one for the new Camp Fire itself, the new circle or tribe. And then, don’t you remember”—Sesooā’s voice rose to a pitch of excitement—“how Betty Ayres, little fair-haired Betty, who’s so enthusiastic and about as big as a minute—she’s just four feet, five inches and a half——”

“My! but your minutes do stretch—like elastic,” put in Arline, with a rallying elbow poke.

“Humph! Piffle! Betty jumped up suddenly as if she saw a vision, with an idea swelling up so big in her that she seemed to grow two inches on the strength of it. ‘Girls!’ she cried, ‘I’m just tired of browsing among Indian dictionaries, searching for a novel name for our new Camp Fire circle. Why don’t we call it, right away, the Morning-Glory Camp Fire? There’s a name that will reflect glory on us!’ said little Betty, half sobbing and half shining. ‘It suggests so much—so much that I can’t just put into words of——’”

“‘Of the Morning of Life, the Glory of Girlhood—and vice versa—isn’t that what you mean, Betty dear?’ said our Guardian, helping her out!” This reminiscent contribution came from Arline. “And then Miss Dewey went on to say how she thought herself that it would be a glorious name for us who are Daughters of the Sun, so to speak, having the Sun as our general symbol. So the Morning-Glory Camp Fire we are! And when we camp out this summer upon the Sugarloaf Peninsula where the sand-dunes are white as snow, we’re going to call our great, ramshackle wooden shanty, with one side quite open to the airs of heaven, Camp Morning-Glory. So much glory that we shan’t know ourselves, eh? But all this”—slowly—“doesn’t bring us one little bit nearer to answering the question which I asked you at first, why our Glory-girl, Jessica, chose her symbolic name at the beginning. Since it put so much into our heads we’ve got a right to know all about it!” with another laughing stamp upon the playground grass. “I can’t bear mystery; if there’s a secret as big as my thumb, even if it’s about nothing or next to nothing, I want to know it.”

“Oh, mystery—I love mystery! Bubbling mystery!” Sesooā rose on tiptoe under the Silver Twins, looking rather like a Baltimore oriole, that vivid flame-bird, for she, too, wore the latest thing in girlish smock frocks of a dainty peach-color very closely related to orange, shirred or smocked with black by her own clever little fingers that had fashioned the garment, too, the which had won her a green honor-bead to string upon the Camp Fire Girl’s necklace that she wore on ceremonial occasions.

Those fingers had draped the little orange Tam O’Shanter, as well, which covered her crisp, dark hair, a masterpiece of head-gear more jaunty, less hood-like than that of the flower-like figure leaning against the auto’s side to which the wheeling firefly of her glance now turned.

“Oh, bubbles! I’m going right over now to ask her why she chose her Morning-Glory name and symbol,” she went on, each word a tinted bubble of laughing curiosity painting itself upon the sunshine. “Absurd, but I am! If there’s any foolish little child-story woven in with the choice, this is the very time and place to hear it, here on the public playground, with all those children—such funny, foreign-looking tots most of them!—dancing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel!’ Pouf! I feel like dancing with them.”

And the human oriole flitting forth from the friendly shade of the Twins fluttered her shirred plumage in a gleeful pas seul upon the playground grass, where the sun-glare transformed her into an orange flame, while her ears, attuned to all merry sounds, drank in the shrill music of five-and-thirty children’s voices (the number ought to have been even, but in that gleeful chorus there was one silent throat), six dancing sets, shouting with a strange babel of foreign accents, to the accompaniment of their stamping feet, the old nonsense-rhyme of the sixteenth century:

“Half a pound of twopenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle,
Stir it up and make it nice
Pop goes the weasel!”

hummed Sally, in flaming echo, and stood still.

All the while, that versatile quirk in her nature, corresponding to the flitting firefly in her eyes, which rendered her attention easily diverted when she wasn’t gravely in earnest, changed her all at once from an eager bubble of curiosity, that must burst if it did not penetrate a trifling secret, into an absorbed spectator. She hung upon the fringe of the playground dances, intent upon every rhythmic movement as the leading couple in each juvenile set (it happened to be a little earringed, lustrous-eyed Syrian girl footing it with a small Turk for a partner in that nearest) formed an arch with their uplifted arms for a gay little dancer to pass beneath.

“Oh-h! don’t they catch on well and dance prettily, these playground children?” murmured Sesooā softly to the quivering interest in her own heart. “I’m awfully glad that Jessica proposed our visiting this playground to-day where there are so many little foreigners not born in this country or whose parents haven’t been long here. She”—dreamily soliloquizing, with a glance at that lavender-smocked figure—“said that, last year, she and the other members of the Akiyuhapi Camp Fire in that Pennsylvanian milling town, where she became a Camp Fire Girl, did so much voluntary work upon the public playground, largely among the little immigrants, teaching them American songs, American games, telling them stories, settling their squabbles. Well! I guess I’m not going to bother her with questions about her ‘Morning-Glory’ name just now. Over there where she’s standing”—flashing another glance at the gray auto, with two girls in it and one leaning against its silver door-knob—“I’d have to bray like a jackass to be heard above the music of that absurd piano, perched upon a low cart. Goody!” with a sudden, excited movement of her vivid shoulders. “I shouldn’t like to be that perched-up pianist. Just suppose the playground horse should take it into his head to pop—to dance—to chase the weasel, too?”

Was it any suddenly restless movement on the part of that four-footed servant of the city which drew the strolling piano upon a low cart from playground to playground to thresh out music for the children’s dances—was it that which flashed the thought backward over his flicking tail, over the head of the pounding pianist seated upon a light cane chair before the lashed piano, flashed it into Sally’s brain? That, or the elfin dance of sunbeams upon his stamping hoofs which, together with the popping dance-cries of the children and the louder popping of the musical instrument behind him—deliriously out of tune, too—must surely infect the staidest horse?

Sally did not know which launched the apprehension, the tickling sunbeams or the restless hoofs and head. But she was used to horses. She found herself mechanically straightening up, controlling the giddy dance-spirit in her own soles, moving nearer—nearer—to the low cart as if she could not help it.

A brilliant orange streak in the sunlight she, flecked oriole-like with black, from the velvet ribbon that lent tone to that saucy little Tam, to the black needlework stars upon the heaving girlish breast.

Then all at once this human flame-bird weaving its way in and out between sets of dancing children was halted by a musical crash, brought up short on tiptoe by a screaming commotion through which rang a nightmare of treble chords wildly sustained by the pianist’s right hand blundering among the shrieking keys of the elevated piano, while her left arm waved on high, imploring help, the whole seeming a premature, mad finale to the popping music, to which every voice upon the playground, animate and inanimate, lent a cry—discordantly at that!

The effect was so feverishly funny that Sally, who had the oriole’s gay spirit within her orange-smocked breast, vented a shriek as loud as any, to swell the confusion, automatically clapping her fingers to her ears.

The voices of some fourscore children had popped explosively from song and shout to scare-note and shriek, a conglomerate shriek, strengthened by every foreign accent under the sun (any cry ever hurled from the crumbling Tower of Babel was nothing to it!), a shriek that hung, sustained, in air together with the rasping, squelching notes of that unfinished musical measure which seemed to tatter the air itself.

“Ouch! My s-soul!” murmured Sally under her breath. “The horse! It’s the—horse. He is bolting, with the piano lashed to the cart behind him. And the—poor—pianist!”

It needed no more. She saw the girl-musician’s left arm waving, imploring, saw her rock upon the light cane chair before the instrument that was not lashed to the rocking cart; she heard the horse’s mutinous snort, heard it strangely echoed in dumb fashion by a pair of parted childish lips near her; crowning all, she caught the terrified shriek of a small boy who clutched at his raven-black hair and what English he could muster as he started toward a sand-pile ahead, yelling, “Mine babee—mine babee! Horse he go kill her; she—she go all—deaded!”

And like the flame from the cloud leaped the answering fire in Sesooā—little Camp Fire Girl!

“The driver—the boy driver—he ought to be shot; he’s umpiring a baseball game,” was the first distinct thought that leaped to her mind as, like an oriole on the wing, she sped across the sunlit grass in the wake of the still rocking cart, the fiendishly howling piano, the screaming, swaying pianist. The second lightning conviction was: “It’s up-hill and the horse can’t really run very fast with that absurd piano behind him! He’s dancing all over the place, rather than wildly running, now!... Rolie showed me—has told me so often—how to stop a runaway!”

Rolie was her Boy Scout brother and that gallant fourteen-year-old Scout seemed to run neck and neck with her in this crisis, whispering heart into her, advising her movements.

The firefly in her eyes, soaring, golden, above consternation, has lit now upon the horse’s quivering haunch—on his black mane.

“After all, he’s only a horse; I’ve not alone ridden one, but, as a Camp Fire Girl, have saddled and bridled and fed an’ currycombed it, too, every day for the past month!” whizzed thought, darting ahead of her as with another springy step or two her right hand has seized the cart’s shaft to hold on and prevent herself from falling in the supreme effort she is about to make.

Her left hand, attached to a strong little wrist for a girl not yet sixteen, has snatched at the dragging reins, holding them short, is trying to pull the horse’s head down, turn it toward her!

Only a horse! And a brother-horse was such a friend of hers! The firefly bore that thought upon its wings as it wheeled above doubt, resistance, wrenching strain that was tugging her soft young arms from their sockets—her feet from the solid earth.

Only a horse! But a maddened horse, distracted by the shrieking ivories behind him!

Her girl’s strength against his!

Yet his rebel-crest was lowering. His lifted forelegs were uncurling, the waving hoofs that cared not what they smashed returning sanely to the sod.

And over the tumult of his heated horse-play, the inflaming echo of the music playing upon his generally patient nerves, rose the voice of the Camp Fire Girl as one who understands, gentling, soothing:

“Whoa! Whoa-a! old horse. There! there! good boy. Qui-quiet—now! The-ere!”

Her left hand has snatched at the dragging reins.

A snort that shook the earth under her feet, a jolt and rattle of the low cart and lashed piano, straining at its moorings to the cart, an hysterical sob from the pianist, and a girl life-saver stood outlined for one flaming minute at the horse’s head, queen of the equine dance, mistress of him and the situation, her hand to her side, her breath coming in great, ragged gasps that claimed to be sobs, too, sobs of wonder at how she ever did it!

“Well done, little girl! Good work! Well done, little Oriole in the orange smock!” came from spectators known and unknown. “How on earth did you have the presence of mind to do it—to stop him so quickly?”

“I’m a Camp Fire Girl. I ought to have my wits about me!”

Sesooā threw back her head and let them see the flame in her eyes, the flame kindled at that new-born Fire whose divine essence is to “Give Service!”

Suddenly that flame cowered and ran to hide in the tremble that swept over her from head to foot, a sick shudder that carried with it, also, the heroine’s grateful ecstasy as she looked ahead, only six short feet, at a raven-haired small boy flinging himself with a jumble of foreign cries and broken English at a playground sand-box, where, amid other tiny tots, a black-haired baby of eighteen months crawled safely like an insect, at the heart of the silvery pile.

CHAPTER II

PLAYGROUND PEACEMAKERS

The pianist had been helped from her cane perch by a grown-up girl, a young school-teacher who led the playground dances and who had run a close race with Sesooā to the rescue; although, as she frankly blurted out now, it was doubtful whether she would have had the courage and skill to stop the runaway in good form, as cleverly as the Camp Fire Girl had done.

It all hinged upon this, as Sally knew, that a black-maned, fifteen or sixteen hands high equine dancer, with a howling piano behind him, presents an infinitely more paralyzing spectacle to the maid, young or old, who has never come to close quarters with a horse in his stable than it would to one who had bridled and unbridled, harnessed and unharnessed him, fed, cared for and petted him intimately—even though the incentive to such laborious care might be partly a decorative one, the reward of another red honor-bead to string upon her Camp Fire Girl’s necklace.

There was one thing to which the orange-smocked maid had not become accustomed, however; that was to sterilizing the flame of her little tongue, lest it should materially hurt anybody, when hot fire was kindled within her from good cause.

“You ought to be shot,” she told the schoolboy driver who had deserted temporarily from the horse’s head; “you ought—ought to be shut up in jail for a month! What sort of stuff have you got in you”—breathlessly—“skedaddling off to a ball game, instead of looking after the cart and piano? Suppose he had killed her?” pointing to the shaken pianist who had sunk upon a bench beneath a beautiful, circular catalpa tree just bursting into flower.

“Oh, Kafoozalem! I didn’t think that old fire-horse would run even if there was a charging battery behind him; he’s as old as Methusaleh,” muttered the boy rather sulkily.

“What! did he once belong to the fire department?” Sesooā was stroking the black mane very gently just now.

“Yes, the city sold him to a livery stable when he got too old to hit the pace with the other horses when a fire alarm was turned in an’ when he was too worn-out to look spry in a hack, the liveryman bargained him back on to the city; now he’s playing the fool carting round a piano for ‘Pop Goes the Weasel!’” The youthful driver snorted between laughter and commiseration.

“Oh! the poor old fellow; perhaps he mistook the singing of the children—it was shrill enough to beat the band—and the popping music behind him for some new-fangled kind of alarm invented since his day; so he just bolted—and danced when he found he couldn’t make it—couldn’t climb the hill dragging the cart and piano, with the pianist playing still! There now! you old hero of a worn-out fire-horse, aren’t you glad you didn’t end your days in disgrace by killing somebody?” cooed the Camp Fire Girl to the aged rebel whose black nose was now nuzzling her waist in friendly fashion.

“Yes, I ought to have stopped playing directly he began to dance,” confessed the girl-musician, “but I simply lost presence of mind. It got on my nerves this morning driving round these poor parts of the city, perched up in front of the cart beside the driver, like an organ-grinder’s wife.”

“Well, you won’t have to do it after this week probably,” comforted the other schoolteacher who led the dances; “the supervisor of playgrounds says that he’s going to station a graphophone on every playground where there isn’t a piano in a schoolhouse close by. You see the playground system is only newly established here in Clevedon and they haven’t got it running very well yet. Hello! Jacob, so your ‘babee’ didn’t get hurt, eh; you’ll have to thank this lady for stopping the horse before he trampled the sand-pile where the tiny children were.” So she addressed the raven-haired small boy in a dingy little hanging blouse of red velvet, whose foreign cries had topped the tumult.

“How old are you, Jacob?” questioned the heroine of the moment, sparing the child and his broken English an attempt at compliance.

Jacob Kominski, Polish Jew, struck a dramatic attitude and blinked at her solemnly.

“‘Old’!” he echoed. “Yes’day I be s-six; next day to-mow-wow I be seven,” speculatively leaning his head to one side; “som’day to-day I’s five—I is all de olds in de world!” passionately.

“Somehow he looks it, doesn’t he?” broke in another girlish voice with a laugh in it and a tender note, too, tender as the dawn, a very morning-glory note, that came well from under the lavender Tam O’Shanter, as the girl in the silken smock frock, the subject of conversation earlier, linked her arm through Sally’s. “Come here, Jacob! Aren’t they ‘cunning,’ these playground children? We used to have such lots of fun with them last year—not here, of course! Oh, Sally, you’re the—bravest—thing!”

“Am I?” breathed Sally, nestling close to the lavender smock; the Glory-girl, as her Camp Fire Sisters had a trick of calling Jessica, was not only the oldest member of their organized circle, not only wore upon the little finger of her left hand the silver fagot ring, symbol of membership—as Sally did upon hers which had caught the horse’s reins—but she was on the verge of attaining higher rank in her society, of becoming a “Fire Maker”; in a word, she was regarded as the flower, not in name alone, of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire, the tribe that was her namesake, in a way.

“Oh! yes, indeed, you were very brave. However did you screw up courage to do it, to run beside the cart and catch the horse’s head? I’d have been afraid of being knocked down—trampled!”

“So would I! And I! Or of having the cart go over me!” Such was the duet of applause which followed on the heels of Jessica’s praise from still two other pairs of girlish lips; namely from the two girls in white who had been seated in the automobile against whom the little spitfire flame of Sally’s tongue had been launched, a little while ago, when she scathingly pronounced them “all fluff and stuff!”

The nobler flame which had burned in her during her late heroic act had altogether consumed petty jealousies and criticisms for the time being; she took their congratulations well and gratefully, while Arline, her dearest chum and Camp Fire Sister with whom she had exchanged memories under the Twins, fondled her upon the side that was not in possession of Jessica.

“The pianist is braver than I was, for, see there! she’s going to mount the cart and play again,” suggested Sesooā presently, growing a little tired of being “fussed over.” “She is gritty, if you like it!”

“So she is!” acquiesced the older of the two Deering girls who owned the luxurious motorcar in waiting upon the playground avenue; her name was Olive; to the unprejudiced eye she did not seem to be composed of super-light and “fluffy” stuff; at sixteen and a half, nearly the same age as Jessica, she was already a beauty, from the glossy, ringlet curl—as black as Jacob Kominski’s locks, but so silkily fine that it did not seem to belong to the same category of human hair—tucked behind her small ear, to the toe of her seven-dollar shoe. “And it must be so perfectly horrid driving round in front of that piano and cart!” added Olive of the blue-black curl, throwing a glance at the mounting pianist from her dark, girlishly dreamy, Southern eyes.

“You may be sure she doesn’t play organ-grinder for fun!” laughed Arline. “She’s a young school-teacher who has to support her mother, so the playground teacher who leads the dances says, and she adds to her salary by playing for the children’s singing games and folk-dances during the playground season. Now! if only one girl who’s a member of our Camp Fire were here—Ruth Marley, who aims at a musical career and plays for our Camp Fire songs and dances, how nicely she could help her out by mounting the cart and pounding away at ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ (I wonder if they’re going to begin that again?) instead of her.”

“Tooraloo! Somebody seems to be beginning something—stirring up a new fuss—over there!” suddenly suggested Sally, who was preening her orange and black plumage, anxiously smoothing it to make sure there was no mark where the penitent old fire-horse had caressed her. “Goody! what’s up now: a battle, an earthquake—or merely somebody drowning in that two-foot-and-a-half-deep bathing pool—or some other playground trifle?”

“It’s a—a fight, I think” quavered a new voice whose staid quality dripped sedately upon the laughing girlish sarcasm.

“A fight! A fight between two boys—two small boys! Where is it? Over there—d’you see—at the foot of the giant stride—beyond those seesawing teeter-ladders!” All the five maidens in summer Tams and Panamas were breathlessly exclaiming together, now, directing their gaze across half-an-acre of playground at a piece of athletic apparatus glittering rather like a tall steel gibbet against the blue and white sky, up whose skeleton ladders juvenile athletes were one by one climbing to try their prowess at sliding or jumping down; at the foot of this “giant stride” a ring of boys, with even one or two men among them, had sprung up as mysteriously as the growth of corn on a hot night.

“Yes, I’m sure it’s a fight between some of the playground children,” said the sedate voice again, coming from the middle-aged woman who had sat in the automobile with the two Deering girls before the escapade of the horse, whom Olive and Sybil—yes, and Jessica Holley, too—called Cousin Anne.

“A quarrel between two little boys who are pommeling each other black and blue, I suppose,” she went on with tremulous anxiety. “Where—where’s the playground teacher?”

“The one who leads the dances is comforting the shaken pianist before she begins to play again—telling the driver to move the cart and piano to a shady spot. Her back’s turned,” gasped Arline.

“Never mind! If it’s a fight between two little boys, I guess I can stop it—these foreign children, some of them, are dreadful for quarreling—I’ve settled playground fights before,” broke in a sudden, quivering cry from Morning-Glory, whose Indian name was Welatáwesit.

“Now, maybe, she’ll be pommeled herself; they may rain blows on her if she gets between them!” wailed Olive in a tone which showed her fondness for Jessica.

“Yes, and it seems so—so low-down to mix all up in a squealing fight between two dirty little foreigners!” Sybil Deering, two years younger than her sister, and rather fluffy in appearance from her present, superficial pout to her loose, light hair and diaphanous frills, wrinkled up a pert little nose that was inclined to point toward Heaven.

“Well! what would you have her do?” challenged Sesooā rather savagely; “let them fight on, until their eyes are all ‘bunged up’ and you could hardly tell their faces from a rubber ball, smeared with red paint, eh? There’s no fear of her!” Sally nodded toward the back of the lavender, flower-like figure making toward that mushroom ring of human applaudists which a fight, or the rumor of a fight, can collect quicker than anything else on this mortal earth. “You needn’t worry about her; she has received an honor for patriotism—a red, white, and blue honor-bead—for work she did on a public playground last year. I’m off to back her up!”

And Sesooā, again the orange-smocked flame, started in the wake of the lavender patriot, Arline, too, asking questions as they sped over the grass of a seven-year-old American boy who was not quite so keen about the pugilistic display as his companions.

“It’s Polie an’ Lithuish,” he not very lucidly explained. “Lithuish he was trying to climb the steel ladder of the ‘stride,’” pointing toward that giant piece of the apparatus of play. “Polie he pulled him down, an’ trod on his toe an’ Lithuish went for him. I guess the Polander boy, he’s the strongest; he’s got ‘Lithie’ down once a’ready!”

He had thrown him again as the girlish patriot in the lavender smock saw, when she darted through the loose ring of older boys, swelled by a bored loafer or two, arrived at so-called man’s estate, who were enjoying the fight and telling them to “Go to it!”

Pole and Lithuanian, sprigs of neighboring foreign races, dwelling next to each other in Europe, they were fighting like small wild things, tooth and claw! Polie of the flashing dark eyes, red lips and round seal-brown head had the better of it; he had flung the taller, fair Lithuanian boy into a bed of flowering canna, where his bleeding nose sowed an extra crop of ruddy blossoms.

“Oh! stop it!” cried the Morning-Glory chokingly, laying hold on Polie’s uplifted arm—although the spectacle was much more savage than she had dreamt of—and hanging on bravely, even, while he launched a sturdy nine-year-old kick at her white skirt and lavender ankle. “Oh! you older boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves—egging them on! Can’t—can’t somebody—stop—it?” for the blue-eyed Lithuanian boy was on his feet again, gory but unconquered.

“Well! I guess somebody will, little lady,” boomed a great voice behind her. “I’d have bore down upon this ‘scrap’ sooner, but for a busted spar!”

The Morning-Glory turned and looked up into a massive face which—thought being very nimble in moments like these—she silently likened all in one gasping instant to two words from a Camp Fire song: “Sheltering Flame!” It was tanned, weathered, and reddened to the florid hue of a red sunset, showing a narrow sky-line of blue, radiating protection, that corresponded to an eye-line.

From that sea-blue eye the girl’s glance involuntarily darted downward to the “busted spar,” a lame pillar of a right leg whose limp was painfully visible even as the newcomer took three hasty strides forward and dropped a powerful hand upon a shoulder of each of the small boys, holding them wide apart in a grip that they might as well try to lift a lighthouse as to break.

The stranger caught her glance and smiled. “Oh! it’s mended now, that damaged spar,” he said, answering her look; “and ’tisn’t a recent injury, anyway. Here, now! You two hop-o’-my-thumb rascals”—shaking the belligerents—“you ease off there an’ don’t get fiery again or, by my word, you’ll both march off this playground to the taste o’ the stick—sore and strong—see?”

There was nothing for them to do but to “see”—see reason—held in that mighty grip. Under a few scathing words from this peacemaker, who was physically, at any rate, a man of weight, for he must have tipped the scale at over two hundred pounds and was ruggedly tall, the ring of applauders melted away into the sunshine like an untimely frost.

“I wish I could ha’ got my hands on them at the same time and given ’em a shaking,” blurted out the flaming peacemaker. “Egging little chaps like these two on!” his gaze traveling back and forth between Polie’s swelling black eye and the nose of Lithuish. “Gosh! they did go at it hard, for young uns. But ’twas only a little sketch of a fight.”

“‘Sketch’? I should call it a—a sanguinary picture,” gasped the girl with a half-hysterical little laugh, pointing to the pug-nose of Lithuish.

“Good for you!” The stranger dropped a smiling look on her from under his bushy, gray eyebrows, pleased at her ready wit. “Well! I guess you can go back to your own folks now with an easy mind,” he suggested. “I’ll keep these butting kids in order,” with a roving glance at the waiting automobile and the group under the fragrant catalpa tree.

“Here’s a playground teacher coming, too,” said Morning-Glory, as a brawny young man, in a dripping khaki shirt and trousers that rained diamonds, approached, hugging a great, wet, white ball. “He’s been away over there evidently teaching some of the children to play water-polo in that shallow bathing-pool.”

She pointed to a broad, artificial sheet of water fed by city hydrants, with a rainbowed fountain in the center.

“Gee whiz! they’d need a score o’ teachers here to direct all these children’s play—it’s a large an’ crowded playground,” remarked the captor of Polie and Lithuish, now interposing his massive body between them. “An’ great kingdom!”—looking around him with a gust of laughter—“there’s more foreign spice on this playground than ever old King Solomon collected in his ships from the four quarters of the earth.”

“You mean that these little foreigners have lots of hot ‘pep’ in them, eh?” flashed Sally, who had just come up, liking to air a little slang.

“Sure, that’s what I do mean!” The lame peacemaker lifted a nautical-looking cap from his grizzled hair in fatherly farewell to the girls as they moved off. “So long!” he said kindly. “Maybe we’ll run across each other again.”

“Maybe we will!” Morning-Glory, otherwise Jessica, threw him a backward smile over her lavender shoulder. “I’m sure he’s a sea-captain—or was,” she said, retracing her way toward the catalpa tree between Sally and Arline. “I’m interested in sea-captains because my great-grandfather was one; I have a little old miniature of him painted on ivory which belonged to Mother; she—she left it to me,” with a catch of the breath. “He has brown hair an’ bluish eyes the color of mine; somewhere about seventy or eighty years ago he commanded a big ship and sailed out of Newburyport—the only Newburyport in the United States.... Oh, if only he could be alive now, then I’d really belong to somebody, not just be thrust on to people who aren’t any relatives at all, no matter how kind they are!” she added under her breath—so low that neither Sally nor Arline heard—with a passionate quiver of the lip and a glance at the Deering automobile flashing in gray and silver, with a faultless chauffeur on the front seat.

“Well! I’m a Camp Fire Girl, anyway.” So she silently caught herself up with a return of the morning-glory look, slightly bedewed. “And ‘Whoso standeth by that Fire, flame-fanned, shall never stand alone!’ What! that plucky pianist is really beginning on ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ again,” she exclaimed, as renewed strains from the elevated piano floated over the playground.

“Let us hope the weasel will pop to a finish this time!” laughed Arline, as they reached the catalpa tree and stood once more, grouped with Olive, Sybil, and their chaperoning cousin, under its fanning, heart-shaped leaves. “Now! I wonder to what nationality that little girl in the coarse gray frock belongs?” went on the Rainbow, sweeping with her glance the sets of skipping children again being marshaled for the folk-dance.

“Do you mean the one with the big, patient, purple eyes—eyes like a wood anemone?” asked Jessica; she who had taken for her Camp Fire name a climbing flower loved flowers of all kinds, especially wild ones.

“Yes, and with a toe sticking out through her old shoe! And she can’t keep her mouth shut, although, apparently, no words come from it. I do believe it was her queer croaking gasps that I heard with the foreign babel and the shrill ‘Oh’s’ and ‘Ah’s’ of all the other children, when I ran to stop the horse!” bleated Sally.

“I wonder if there’s anything wrong with her; whether she’s—what-d’you-call-it—defective in any way?” came in languid speculation from Olive.

“Girls!” Cousin Anne sadly settled the question. “I believe she’s deaf and dumb.”

“Deaf and dumb! That explains her. Oh, poor tot!” The Morning-Glory, whose dance-loving feet had been keeping time to the popping music, unrhythmically swung one of them off at a sharp angle, as if a rude pebble had struck her ankle in its silken stocking, hurting it more than Polie’s kick. “Deaf and dumb! Then she can’t hear the music. And she’s so awkward, moves so slowly and clumsily, that the other children don’t want to dance with her!.... Oh! she almost makes one cry.” Jessica brushed the blue-gray eyes that, according to her, resembled her ancestor’s in the old miniature. “See her standing still in the middle of the fun, plucking at the gathers of her gray frock, looking up at the other children, trying to find out what they’re going to do next!”

“Yes, and one of those other children will take her hand as a partner when the teacher insists, then drop it directly she looks the other way! They don’t want to dance with her silent tongue and old, broken shoes,” said Olive Deering.

“Then I’m going to dance with her, if the teacher will let me. We’ll form a set of our own, we two, if we can’t fit in anywhere! You don’t mind keeping the auto waiting a little longer, do you, Cousin Anne?”

The last words were flashed back over Jessica’s smocked shoulder, with a tremulous tilt of her upper lip that hung between a laugh and a sob. Already she was mingling with the juvenile dancers, a tall purple and white Morning-Glory amid that garden of racial buds, of little children from every clime.

The dumb child’s hand was in hers, after a few low words to the playground teacher, who abstracted one odd child from the nearest set and installed the new couple in her place. Jessica’s foot in its patent-leather pump and lilac stocking was thrust forth side by side with the rusty, out-at-toe footwear, the Morning-Glory swaying upon its inner tendril, the yearning tendril of Love, teaching the grey, cramped bud beside her to sway and step—to glide and pirouette—too.

The glide was only a clumsy shuffle. But there grew a light in the dumb child’s eyes, those eyes of purple patience, so that those who watched its dawning flicker from under the catalpa tree felt their throats tickle.

It did not go out with the final popping of the long-suffering weasel. For, now, the pianist, quite herself again, had struck up the gay, frolicking music of a Vineyard Dance. And side by side those mismatched partners, the seventeen-year-old Camp Fire Girl, the eight-year-old deaf-mute, were scampering through it, enacting all the vineyard drama of growth,—Jessica by dumb show instructing, after a fashion, the child at her side.

Hand in hand they knelt on one knee on the playground grass, making gay pretense of planting grape-seeds in the warm ground. Step by step—stamp, stamp, stamp!—they circled round, with arms uplifted, with groping fingers plucking counterfeit grapes of sunshine from imaginary vines, that violet light growing in the dumb child’s eyes, while she strove to ape each gesture and movement of her companion, as if—transfigured—she peeped through the gates ajar of fairy-land, had her first real glimpse of the joy of childhood.

Suddenly, her feet lagged; she dragged upon Jessica’s hand. She stood still. Her big eyes were uplifted to the white cloud-foam drifting across the blue sea of the July sky. Then they dropped wonderingly to her partner’s face.

“Look! Look! Look!” cried Arline with a frank, glad sob. “I verily believe she thinks Heaven is short an angel to-day, one having dropped down from the clouds, especially to dance with her!”

CHAPTER III

CAPTAIN ANDY TAKES OFF HIS HAT

“Great Neptune! I do declare, she dances as lightly as a Mother Carey chicken balancing upon a wave.”

“You should say, rather, that she dances like a morning-glory in the breeze!” Sesooā looked laughingly up into the face of the massive peacemaker who had separated the two little fighting foreigners; he had delivered them over to the tender mercies of the playground teacher who carried the dripping white water-ball in his arms, while he, the lame stranger whom Jessica opined was a sea-captain, withdrew to a better position for watching the dancing which brought him near to the group under the circular catalpa tree.

“An’ why should I say she dances like a ‘morning-glory,’ may I ask? I don’t know much about flowers, but I know a whole lot about foam-chickens, Carey chickens—stormy petrels you’d call ’em, most likely: and they’re the lightest, most buoyant things on God’s earth! You should see them,” went on the stranger expressively, “with their small wings spread, balancing on a wave-crest, little feet digging down into the foam, never sinking, disappearing into a watery hollow one minute, up again the next, crowing on the top of another foam-hill! I say she dances like that, the girl who’s footing it with the little creature in the broken old shoes and grey frock—as if the wave could never catch her!” There was a little genial mist, like light spray from the stormwater of which he spoke, in the stranger’s eye now, as it followed Jessica and her dumb partner through the last gay stampede of the vineyard dance. “And here’s hoping that the storm-wave never will swallow her!” he added with an eye of such merry fatherly kindness that Sally, part of whose bringing-up it had been not to hold familiar converse with strangers, absolutely forgot to place him in that category and immediately gave her racy little tongue all the freedom it desired.

“That sounds awful-ly nice what you say about her,” she remarked. “And I’ll tell her you said it; she’ll be pleased to hear it because she has made up her mind that you’re a sea-captain and her great-grandfather was one, owned a big ship and sailed out of Newburyport.”

“Ha! The only Newburyport in the United States, with its plaguy sand-bar at the mouth of the Merrimac River, so that ships can sail out of that port, when they’re in ballast, but never put in there, when they’re loaded, after a long voyage!”

“Ye-es,” murmured Sally, not interested. “But fancy thinking so much about one’s great-grandfather! However, I’m going to set to work and look up mine now, my grandparents and great-grandparents an’ what they did—so’s to win a patriotic honor-bead for my Camp Fire Girl’s necklace! But it’s different with her”—volubly indicating the deaf-and-dumb child’s partner, who was now guiding her, with expressive pantomime, through the mazy windings of a ribbon dance—“she thinks so much of that old sea-captain ancestor because she’s got his miniature and because I don’t believe she has any living relatives to think about. Her father and mother are both dead. She’s staying with the Deerings who own that beautiful automobile but I don’t think she’s related to them, except through their elderly cousin”—nodding toward the bench under the catalpa tree—“who’s her cousin, too.”

“What is the girl’s name?” asked the grey-haired peacemaker.

“Jessica Dee Holley.”

“Ha! ‘Dee’ sounds like an old Newburyport name; leastways I’ve seen it in old entries.”

“That was her mother’s name. But she isn’t alone, although she has no near relatives, because she’s a Camp Fire Girl, and we ‘cleave to our Camp Fire Sisters whenever, wherever we find them!’” Sesooā threw back her head with the same loyal gesture as that wherewith she had faced the world after stopping the horse; the golden firefly in her eyes hovering directly over the Camp Fire flame in her heart.

From the ranks of the juvenile dancers came, now, the joyful lilt of another song.

“Two by two,
Two by two,
Here we go!
With merry hearts,
And a cheerful song,
As we march in the double row.”

Two by two, yes, Jessica and her little silent partner leading with a vim, she singing for both!

Again Sally’s throat tickled and the firefly bore a little mist upon its wings as she noted the new spirit which had crept into the deaf-and-dumb child’s movements, into the clumsy, ill-shod feet, into the grey, stocky little figure, into the small, stubby fingers which no longer plucked wistfully at the gathers of her coarse frock, but brightly spread themselves in an inspired attempt to copy the waving gestures of the wonderful partner in shining lavender and white who had dropped from the clouds for her.

The sight was moving. The firefly in Sally’s eyes went in out of the rain.

“She’s going to be initiated as a Fire Maker at our next Council Fire gathering,” she murmured, nodding toward Jessica and hardly caring whether her impromptu companion understood her meaning or not. “But, oh”—blinking bright drops from her eyelids—“she ought to be a Torch Bearer! She’s a Torch Bearer already! Look at the light which she has brought into that little dumb girl’s eyes—she has lit a torch in her heart.”

“Well! I guess she has,” returned the big stranger in a moved voice, too.

“I don’t know whether you know much about Camp Fire Girls.”—Sesooā dashed the bright drops away and the firefly reappeared, hovering over a dimple—“but when a girl joins the society she takes a symbolic name, generally an Indian one, that signifies something she aims particularly to do or be. Jessica chose that of a climbing flower, the morning-glory—or its nearest Indian equivalent—for some little secret reason of her own; that’s what made it seem funny—incongruous—you know, when you said she danced like a stormy petrel, a Mother Carey chicken,” poutingly.

“Ah-h!” The stranger drew his massive brows together ruminating for a minute, his eyes on the wavy ribbon dance. “Ah! but, maybe, the two aren’t so wide apart as you think.” He turned and nodded at her. “Take a stormy morning at sea, now. I’ve seen the dawn, the morning-glory to be, come up, just a little grey flutter in the sky—like a dove-grey chicken that the foam had hatched—the foam that was piled like a great, pale egg against the horizon! It’s a funny world, little girl,” with an all-comprehensive wink of the sea-blue eye. “Things an’ meanings of things are never such miles apart but that you can link ’em, somehow; an’ that’s true of more than foam and flower!”

“Why—Captain Andy!”

“Why-y! Miss Winter!”

Cousin Anne had risen suddenly from the bench under the catalpa tree, shocked at seeing one of the girls whom she was chaperoning holding free converse with a stranger. Now she was advancing with warmly outstretched hand.

“Why! Miss Winter, I never expected to meet you here.” The massive stranger, standing bareheaded in the sunshine, was as cordially shaking that proffered hand.

“It’s Captain Andy, my dears!” Miss Anne Winter beckoned to the two Deering girls, her relatives and special charges. “Olive! this is Captain Andrew Davis who saved your Cousin Marvin’s life, with that of several other young men—college chums—when they were wrecked, while yachting a couple of years ago, off the Newfoundland Coast. You remember?” flutteringly.

“Oh! yes, indeed.” Olive extended a gracious, girlish hand; she was conscious of a little creepy thrill at meeting a real live hero, especially one who carried the heroism done up in such massive bulk, but she had heard her Cousin Marvin—before the rescue—speak of this Captain Andy Davis as being a sea-captain in no grand, mercantile way, as commanding no big barque, but only what Marvin—likewise before the rescue—dubbed a smelly fish-kettle, otherwise a New England fishing-schooner, little over a hundred feet in length from stem to taffrail.

Heroism had its noble uses, of course, especially when one had been stranded for hours as Marvin and those other college boys were upon sharp, naked rocks, seeing their yacht broken to pieces by the mountainous swell of an old sea after a storm, death staring them in the face, with no hope of rescue, until Captain Andy and his gallant “fish-kettle” hove in sight and bore down upon them—until Captain Andy, with a volunteer from his crew, launched a dory and succeeded in saving their lives at the extreme risk of his own.

Olive remembered hearing Marvin say that he did not believe there was another mariner upon the Massachusetts coast who could have “pulled off that rescue” with the sea as it was then. She thrilled again, looking up into the keen blue eye under the heavy lid, into the face which had made Jessica think of sheltering flame. At the same time, she could not help seeing a gulf—a broad gulf with floating shapes of fishy decks, horny hands, scaly oilskins—intervene between her and her sister, daughters of the bi-millionaire owner of big machine works for the manufacture of textile machinery, and this limping weather-beaten master mariner.

Sybil did not even take the trouble to be as friendly as she was.

Meanwhile Cousin Anne, Miss Anne Winter, was introducing Captain Andy Davis in proper form to Arline and Sally, mentioning the fact that the grateful Marvin had taken her to visit him when last she was in Gloucester.

“Oh, I must have felt it in my fingers—or in my tongue—that I knew you, or ought to know you, or that somebody here knew you, or I never would have talked to you so freely!” declared Sally in an orange flutter.

“And how do you come to be in Clevedon just now?” questioned Miss Anne, interrogating the weather-beaten face.

“My artist sent for me.” That florid visage bloomed all over with a boyish smile that gleamed somewhat shamefacedly through the thick, fair eyelashes, not yet turned grey. “She said she hadn’t got my ground colors right—gee! I didn’t know I had any, except when my vessel was grounded in the mud. ‘Carnation colors’ she called ’em—jiminy!”

His breezy bubble of laughter was caught and tossed further by Sally and Arline who eagerly hung upon the novelty of his speech.

“The artist is Miss Loretta Dewey, isn’t she?” So Miss Anne took him up. “She has taken you for the subject of her sea picture: ‘The Breaker King.’”

“Yes. I’m highly flattered. I had other business in this city, too, besides fixing my carnation colors,” with again that boyish laugh stirring the thick eyelashes. “I’ve been in correspondence with a lady here, a cousin of the artist’s, about renting one of my new camps at the mouth of the Exmouth River—tidal river, you know—for the summer.” (Sally caught her breath as if she were fishing for it, rose on tiptoe, stared at him breathlessly.) “The fact is, Miss Winter, I’m tired of being a hayseed,” the ex-mariner went on—“tried it for two years an’ couldn’t take to it.”

“What have you done with your little farm among the Essex woods?”

“Turned it over to my hired man. Oh! he’s a reformed character, he’ll run it all right; he’s got two anchors out now to leeward an’ win’ard, which means he was married a year ago an’ had a son born last month. Guess he had the baby baptized a Scout,” with a twinkle; “he said that ’twas watching the Boy Scouts an’ their manly doin’s that first started him to wanting to hit a man’s trail, at last—make a man of himself.”

But Miss Anne knew that it was Captain Andy who had followed up the unconscious work of the Scouts by taking that hired man, hopeless graduate of a reform school, and setting him on his feet again.

“You’re not thinking of going to sea any more?” she asked.

“No, my damaged spar kind o’ interferes with that.” The mariner looked down at his lame right leg where the sea left its mark on him in his last terrible fight with it. “But I’m gettin’ as near to the ocean as I can while staying ashore,” he volunteered. “I put in this past spring building three big, rambling wooden shanties—they ain’t much more—which I call camps, on the edge of some white sand-dunes, wildest spot on the coast of Massachusetts, where the tidal river meets the bay, or sea.”

“Oh! it’s not the Sugarloaf sand-dunes?” squeaked Sesooā, her voice thin and wiry with excitement.

“Very place! The white Sugarloaf Peninsula! Just a hundred acres, or so, of tall, snowy sand-hills in that part o’ the dunes, and wild life a-plenty on dune an’ river—bird, fish, an’ mammal, or seal! I’ve rented two of the camps already”—went on the speaker, in the teeth of a now prevalent gust of excitement which, blowing toward him, threatened to sweep him off his feet—“one to a family, t’other to a flock; to a lady, right here in this city of Clevedon, who’s going to bring ten or twelve young girls with her, to camp out, some of ’em lately started upon a cruise of their ’teens, others about midway of the voyage,” with a deep gurgle of laughter like the briny bubble of the sea.

“Did she—did she say they were a Camp Fire Group?” Sesooā’s hands were clasped upon a flame of suspense so eager that it almost scorched them.

“Come to think of it, now, I guess she did! I’ve heard a lot about that tribe, in general, lately. Boy Scouts an’ Camp Fire Girls, they’re in the spot light just now.”

“They deserve to be. And was the Guardian’s—the lady’s—name Miss Dewey?”

“You’ve hit it. I’m to be watch-dog and life-guard to the flock—I’ll have a tent o’ my own near.”

“Then, it’s us! It’s us, Captain Andy!” cried the Rainbow and the Flame together. “It’s our Morning-Glory Camp Fire that has rented your camp for the remainder of this month of July and all the month of August—the Green Corn Moon. Oh, we’re so glad to have met you—that you’re going to be our camp guard and protector!”

“Land o’ Goshen! you ain’t got no corner on the gladness; that I tell you.” The old lifesaver beamed. “Is she coming, too?” pointing to the girlish figure in the flower-like Tam among the shifting playground sets. “Is she going to camp on the dunes, too, the one that dances like a foam-chicken or a foam-clot—the Morning-Glory one?”

“Of course she is.”

“I suppose, now, you’d call her a—what-d’ye-call-it—anæsthetic dancer, eh?” with an inquisitive twinkle.

“Æsthetic,” corrected Olive, smiling a superior little smile. “Anæsthetic is a thing that puts people to sleep when they’re in pain—a medicine.”

“Oh! aye, I put my foot in the medicine, did I?” gasped the squelched captain, his “carnation colors” deepening.

From the playground came the cooing words of yet another song, dramatic, disconnected, marking the close of the afternoon’s singing games and folk-dances:

“Bluebird, bluebird, through my window!”

“Oh, Jennie, I’m tired!”

At the two random lines, children’s heads were dropped each upon the other’s shoulder in mock fatigue, resting there a moment in drowsy confidence.

“Turk, Armenian, Teuton, Slav, an’ almost every other race thrown in—Lord! if that ain’t a Peace Conference to beat the Hague,” muttered Captain Andy, his eyes watering as they scanned the faces of those foreign buds.

“I think he’s great—and I don’t mean it slangily either! He is Great,” said impulsive Sally in an aside to Olive. “Oh! why don’t Sybil and you join our Camp Fire tribe and camp with us, too, upon his Sugarloaf dunes. I feel like shouting when I think of the fun we’ll have, rowing and swimming, singing and dancing our Indian dances, the Leaf Dance and Duck Dance that Morning-Glory is going to teach us—she learned them from a professor who learned them from the Indians—among those crystal, sugary, sandy dunes.”

“Yes, and cooking your own meals, by turns, laundering your own blouses, washing camp dishes—glorifying work, as you call it! That wouldn’t suit me.” Olive shook her satin curl. “Sybil and I—with Cousin Anne, of course—are going to spend August at an hotel on the North Shore. We’ll have plenty of dancing, too; it’s a very fashionable, exclusive hotel and the most expensive teacher of up-to-date dances is coming from New York to give lessons to the guests, including Sybil and me; I teased Father until he said we might learn from him—otherwise, we shan’t have a study or a thing to do but to amuse ourselves all day long.”

The bright flame of Sally’s enthusiasm wavered and paled like a candle-flame in garish sunshine. Her face fell. To her versatile, girlish fancy the picture which Olive painted of the coming August was richer in coloring, more dazzlingly gilded in frame—with the modern dancing thrown in—than any that the crystal Sugarloaf could offer, even when peopled with fringed and beaded Camp Fire Girls.

Crestfallen, she looked at Captain Andy, partly to hide her chagrin.

He was staring fixedly at the playground before him, where a dumb child unable to reach up and drop her head upon a seventeen-year-old girl’s lavender shoulder—as the other children were doing with their partners—laid it upon her breast.

“Bless her heart of gold, that girl!” he breathed, his strong face working. “Whether you call her ‘Morning-Glory’ or foam-chicken, I say bless her heart for calling the bluebird through a dumb child’s window when she can’t call it for herself.... I had a little sister, long ago, born deaf an’ dumb; she only lived to be four. I played with her until she died.... I take off my hat to that Camp Fire Girl.”

“Oh-h!” exploded Sesooā between a sob and a song which together cleared the horizon and righted her toppling enthusiasm; that in girlhood to which Captain Andy, hero of a hundred sea-fights, bared his head, as he reverently did, was best worth while; unwittingly he, a connoisseur in Life, had put his finger on that which was lacking in Olive’s picture, present in this: the seeking Beauty not for oneself alone, not in one’s own life only, but to see it blossom in dull, sad, silent corners of the human garden, the Camp Fire ideal.

Swept upon a tide of reaction Sally turned passionately to Cousin Anne. “Oh, Jessica is the dandiest girl,” she exclaimed, slangy with emotion. “Oh! Miss Anne, I do want to ask you a question; do you know, won’t you tell me, why she was bent on choosing Morning-Glory as her Camp Fire name and emblem, why she was called ‘Glory’ as a pet name before?”

“It was because of a little incident in her childhood.”

“Yes, I know! And this playground, teeming with children, is the very place to hear it,” seconded Arline, chiming in.

“Well, I don’t think she would mind my telling you girls, it’s such a trifling little story, but because it’s so tenderly connected with her mother, who died a little more than two years ago, she doesn’t care to speak of it herself; her mother was my cousin.”

“Yes?” breathed the expectant girls.

“I used to visit them when Jessica was a little child; she loved flowers from the time she was a baby girl, and her mother invented a ‘flower game’ which she used to play with her at night after the child was in bed, so that she might fall asleep with a happy impression on her mind; the mother would begin, ‘I am your rose,’ to which the drowsy little voice would answer, ‘I am your violet,’ or something like that and so on through all the flowers they could name, until Jessica was asleep.

“Well! one night the game went on as usual: ‘I am your rose,’ ‘I am your vi’let;’ ‘I am your pansy,’ ‘I am your lily;’ ‘I am your dandelion,’ ‘I am your nasturt’um;’ ‘I am your lily of the valley,’ but to this there was no answer—the mother had the last word—Jessica was fast asleep.

“Early next morning, however, her mother was awakened by two little arms stealing round her neck, by a moist little mouth pressed to her cheek and a child’s voice saying softly into her ear: ‘Mamma! Mamma! I am your morning-glory!’

“Somehow, under cover of sleep, the seed of the flower game had lingered in her mind all night, to blossom in the morning.” Miss Anne gently blinked at such mysteries, looking before her at the dissolving playground sets.

“Oh-h, if that isn’t the sweetest child-story!” burst from Sally in subdued applause. “I’m so glad that you told it to us, satisfied our curiosity.”

“Yes, and we’ll have such a pretty little anecdote to relate, in turn, at our next Council Fire gathering—when we’re supposed to tell of some kind deed which we’ve seen done—about how the Morning-Glory danced with the dumb child, gave her such a good time this morning. I wish I could write it up in verse—even blank verse,” yearned Arline aspiringly. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Miss Anne?”

“Of course she will; it’s to be held outdoors, if the weather is fine, upon the lake shore at the foot of Wigwam Hill, where you can almost see the ghosts of Indians—who camped there in numbers, nearly two hundred years ago—moving about. Of course she’ll be there and Captain Andy, too, to see me light a fire without matches and watch us dance the Leaf Dance!” Sesooā whirled like an orange leaf in a gust of reinstated enthusiasm. “Hurrah for our Morning-Glory Camp Fire! Hurrah and hurrah again for Camp Morning-Glory—our camp that is to be—on the far-away Sugarloaf!” her mind’s eye exploring those white Sugarloaf dunes, amid which she would revel, Puck-like, fairy-like, by the light of the Green Corn Moon.

CHAPTER IV

A LAKESIDE COUNCIL FIRE

“Wo-he-lo for aye,
Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo,
Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for aye!
Wo-he-lo for work,
Wo-he-lo for health,
Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo,
Wo-he-lo for Love!”

On Wigwam Hill the pine-tree—the noble standing pine, emblem of “simplicity and strength,” symbol of membership in the Camp Fire Sisterhood—bent its head, listening with every needle, as if it knew itself the special patron of this winding chant. Maple and elm-tree, amid whose rich foliage reposed like flaming birds of paradise the last rays of the setting sun, fluttered their approval as the chanting procession wound beneath them. The white-birch-tree rocked with applause. The evening breeze curled the ears of the lake and bade it listen to “Wohelo!”

Only the great-horned, straw-eyed owl, a life prisoner on the lake shore—imprisoned years ago by some naturalist who led a hermit’s existence within a stone’s throw of the water—ruffled his dappled plumage until he looked as big as an eagle upon the dim perch of his cage-house, and pessimistically hissed the chant.

He might have hooted, but in captivity he had lost his voice, was as dumb, so far as natural expression went, as the little deaf-mute of the city playground, reduced to declaring his feelings,—highly embittered ones,—by a goose-like hiss.

“Poor old owl, I do feel so sorry for you—you poor, soured old prisoner!” murmured the fringed and beaded leader of the chanting Wohelo procession, winding out from the leafy foot of Wigwam Hill past the captive’s cage, as she met the painted eye, golden as a wheaten straw and as lifeless, with a little black dot of a pupil within the yellow ring.

Whereupon the captive opened his beak until she could almost see past the roots of the pink, kitten-like tongue down into his stomach, and hissed her, turning his head upon its swivel neck, without moving another muscle or feather of his body, until he faced, now, sideways, now, directly backward, taking stock of the girl-leader’s brown-robed followers. At intervals he lowered over the painted-looking straw-eye the tiny, mysterious curtain, grey as asbestos, which he kept tucked up under his eyelid, as if the stately procession of fourteen brown figures gliding, single file, in and out among the outstanding tree-trunks, with pearly glitter of head-band and flash of many-colored honor-beads upon girlish necks, dazzled him.

“Good land! is it old Wigwam Hill—or the maidens who sleep in that Indian graveyard on the top of it—come to life?” gasped Captain Andy to his “artist” who had kept him in the city in order to paint his ground colors, the hardy flame of the skin, the indomitable blue of the eye, for her picture of “The Breaker King.” “Only I’ll wager those dead-an’-gone maidens couldn’t touch these in looks or in the bravery of their beads an’ fixings; I’ve seen all sorts of fashions an’ rigs, but this is a style of its own—eh?” He gave a breezy puff of admiration as his mariner’s eye followed the procession of maidens in leather-fringed khaki, lit by embroidery and bead, the filleted figures whose hair fell in long braids to their waists, Morning-Glory (to-night to be initiated into higher rank) leading, as they crossed an open space upon the lake shore and glided past a stationary figure of mature grace, with a yellow sun embroidered upon the left breast of her ceremonial dress, which matched theirs.

“It is Gheezies, our Guardian—Guardian of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire,” was the joyous recognition in each girlish breast, as the members of the procession, in turn, saluted her with a hand-sign, their right arms gracefully upraised, following the curves of an imaginary flame, the hand-sign of fire; fire of the heart and fire of the hearth, fire of the sun and fire beneath the shingled or slated roof-tree that shelters a home, being the glowing symbol of the Camp Fire Girl.

One of the saluting figures, third in the procession, which even in ceremonial beads and fringes had something familiar about it to Captain Andy, had a small bow of polished wood slung upon her right arm upraised in the hand-sign.

“Well! I wondered, bein’ Indian maidens, that they had no bows an’ arrows among ’em; that redeems it,” muttered the highly diverted captain.

“Oh, but she isn’t going to shoot an arrow from that bow, else you and I might look out for punctures!” laughed the artist. “She’s going to coax the arrow of fire out of dull wood with it—see the notched fireboard and drill in her left hand—going to kindle the Council Fire without matches!”

“Well, if she does that, she’ll make me sit up an’ take notice! My word! how often I’ve tried that trick, raked over heaven an’ earth, as you might say, for the means o’ making a fire—an’ that more’n once, too—when I’ve been shipwrecked and freezing all night on a lonesome shore.”

“Hadn’t you any matches?” questioned Olive Deering who sat upon a fallen pine-log near the captain’s boulder, also a guest at this open-air Council Fire, not yet kindled.

“The sea took ’em when it ripped off my sou’wester, the matches being in a flannel pocket of its lining. I tell you, little lady, I had hard work to hold on to my scalp, an’ so had every member o’ my crew, too, swimming forty or fifty yards to fight for a foothold on naked rocks, in an icy sea that pounded a man as if bent on breaking every bone in his body—that was the worst time when we were wrecked off the island o’ Grand Manan in a November breeze, when some of us spent the night clinging to icy ledges, t’others crawled up, bleeding an’ frost-bitten, to where there was wood—Lord! what we wouldn’t ha’ given to know the secret o’ getting fire without matches then. You don’t tell me a girl can do it? I guess she may, perhaps—when sprats swallow sharks, as we sailors say!” he added, with a sceptical chuckle.

“Well! wait and see the shark eaten up—the impossible done!” laughed the artist trustfully.

In the gathering dusk Olive’s dark eyebrows were drawn together; from her windfall log, where she sat side by side with Sybil, she looked sidewise scrutinizingly at the grey-haired master mariner; she was beginning to see the gulf which yawned between him and her filled not with shapes of slimy decks, gurry-pens and fish-scaled oilskins, but with the towering masts of human courage and heroism that reached unto the sky, piercing Death’s very shadow, outsailing and outwitting that pale spectre a hundred times to save human life.

“I wonder—I wonder whether ‘the sprat will swallow the shark’: whether Sally will really succeed in getting fire without matches?” she quivered, leaning forward with a new interest in the performance which had, before, seemed merely spectacular, what the boys would call a “showing-off stunt.”

And, now, the fringed and beaded Camp Fire Girl was kneeling on her right knee upon the burnished sod of the lake shore, her left foot pressing down hard upon the flat fireboard in which there was a little scooped pit or hollow merging into a notch in the edge of the board, resting upon a thin little wooden tray placed beneath it.

Her left hand—its wide-sleeved arm braced against the knee of that firmly planted left leg—grasped the handle or socket of her upright drill, about a dozen inches in length, her right steadily worked back and forth the bow, drawn taut by its leather thong, which rested upon that socket at the top of the drill, whose sharpened lower point, thus worked, turned boringly in the scooped hollow of the fireboard—grinding its soft punky wood into a brown sawdust which in a few seconds turned black as it fell upon the tray beneath.

It was a wonderful picture—so the artist thought—this linking of the far past with the present, primitive woman with civilization, while old Wigwam Hill looked darkly on.

Captain Andy was, indeed, sitting up and taking notice, his massive figure leaning slightly forward, hands outspread upon his knees, in breathless interest: was “the sprat,” actually, going to “eat up the shark,” a girl achieve the feat—perform the igniting wonder—which bearded men in the grip of deadly cold and desolation had attempted in vain?

True, in these strange days, he had seen a Boy Scout work that fire trick and get a spark in about thirty seconds. But a girl!

“Seems to me I know that little fire-witch, too,” he murmured to the artist. “Ain’t she the one that was fluttering round like an oriole in orange and black on the playground t’other day an’ that made friends?... My living sakes! she’s got it. See—see her smoke!” meaning the black powdered wood running out of the notch in the edge of the fireboard onto the tray, under the steady grinding of the drill—not the fire-witch, Sesooā.

Yes, grey and hopeful, it rose, that tiny cloud of smoke upon the golden air. Sally’s Camp Fire Sisters held their breath, poised on tiptoe. Wood Gatherers they, according to rank and in deed, who had been gathering inflammable birch-bark and fat pine-splinters, piling them together, in hope and faith, as the nucleus of their coming Council Fire.

“Oh! I shall die if she doesn’t get the flame, now she’s got the smoke!” quavered little fair-haired Betty Ayres, whose Camp Fire name was Psuti, the Holly, fluttering, with arms outspread, like a brown moth with a touch of gold upon its wings. “Sesooā will be so mortified if she fails, with visitors present.”

“She won’t fail. She can’t! I see the red! Don’t you—don’t you see it, the red spark?” The quivering cry came from Mŭnkwŏn, Arline.

Yes, the airy smoke was increasing, wheeling upward in a tiny spiral and at its heart appeared the miracle—a dull red spark, like a fire-seed sown by the vanished sun.

“Hurrah! she’s got it. Hush, don’t speak! Don’t startle her. She has yet to make it burn.”

But, now, Sesooā—one breathing, quivering foster-flame herself, with cheeks on fire—was holding some tinder, shredded cedar-wood, down upon the spark, shielded by a fragment of birch-bark. It was the crucial moment of all. Rising upon one knee, gently she blew upon it, the fire-witch, fanning it with the quivering breath of her own life.

“She won’t fail. She can’t! I see the RED!”

It blazed. The day was won.

“Good life alive! that stumps me; I never thought of a girl doing that.” The cry came in a tempestuous gust from Captain Andy.

“She got the fire in exactly fifty-one seconds from the time she started drilling; I timed her.” The artist was peering through the dusk at the watch upon her knee.

“Well, they’ll light their Council Fire now; it ought to be a booming one. Here’s for gathering some good chunks from the edge of the woods to swell it!” The captain, who had already found his feet in excitement, limped toward the tree-clad foot of Wigwam Hill—whistling and chanting boisterously, boyishly, in amazed elation over the feat which he had witnessed:

“Singing whack fol de ri-do!

’Twill comfort their souls,

To get such fine fagots,

When they’ve got no coals!

“Young Maidee, young Maidee,
If I tell you true,
I’m keeping some fagots
And sticks, too, for you!”

“We’ll accept the fagots, although we generally don’t take any help in the building of our Council Fire!” cried one of the girlish Wood Gatherers running toward him in the gloaming, holding up her left hand on which the silver fagot ring gleamed. “But don’t you dare—dare sing the rest of that song on peril of your life! I can sing it, too:

“A woman, a dog,
And an old walnut-tree,
The more that you whacks ’em
The better they’ll be!

We’re Camp Fire Girls; we grow by working, not by whacking.”

“Whoo! Whoo! Hulla-baloo! Peppercorns and fire-sticks! Have I put my foot in it again, as I did on the playground, mixing up medicine and dancing?” roared the rueful mariner. “There! even that old caged bird is hissing me, as if he had a goose-head, not an owl’s, upon his swivel shoulders.”

So, fanned by laughter, fostered with song, the Council Fire grew until it threw a far reflection on the lake waters and lit up many a nook known to Indian maidens of yore, at the foot of the historic hill.

“Now comes the most important part of the Council Fire program, the initiation of one girl into the rank of Fire Maker, higher than that of Wood Gatherer, which she has borne since her first initiation!”

So spoke the artist after certain preliminary ceremonies had taken place, such as the awarding of new honor-beads, two red honors to Sesooā for feats of horseback riding and for feeding, petting, and combing a horse from mane to tail during a period of thirty days—a prancing routine dignified as Health Craft!

Other honors, flame-colored mostly, were chiefly for homely duties such as girls had always performed, often with a shrug that labeled them humdrum, seeing no glamor about them until they were painted rose-color forever by an honor-bead strung upon a leather thong, by the light of the magically kindled Council Fire.

“Who’s the lucky girl that gains higher rank?” yawned Captain Andy whose masculine interest flagged a little. “If you don’t stop hissing, I’ll wring your swivel neck!” this to the owl. “I tried freeing that bird this evening when the old naturalist’s back was turned—couldn’t warm to the idea of his enduring a prison life-sentence—and, will you believe it, he couldn’t fly two yards, had lost his wing-power, as well as his hoot, through not using it. I had to hustle him back into his cage, with a bitten finger, to prevent the camp dogs from getting him. Ha! so that’s the candidate for rank, eh”—looking toward the Council Fire again—“the Morning-Glory girl that dances like a leaf in a gust, or a foam-chicken—or anything else that’s lighter’n a puff?”

Welatáwesit was giving a demonstration of another kind now, vaunting her skill at first aid by bandaging Betty. Then something white, larger than a bandage, fluttered in the flame-stabled twilight; it might have been a child’s frock.

Softly through the dusk came the voice of the deaf-and-dumb child’s partner, consecrating her girlish powers to the fire of humankind:

“For I will tend,
As my fathers have tended,
And my fathers’ fathers,
Since time began,
The fire that is called,
The love of man for man,
The love of man for God.”

“An’ without those two fires this old world would be about as warm an’ cheerful as an ice-jammed hull, eh?” commented Captain Andy, intent upon the mature figure of the Guardian who, ruddily outlined in the flame-light, was placing upon the arm of the new Fire Maker the silver insignia of her rank, the Fire Maker’s bracelet.

“I think Jessica is the sort of girl who naturally tends that heart-fire without which the world would be out in the cold!” remarked Cousin Anne at this point, leaning forward from her seat upon a fallen tree-trunk. “One of her Camp Fire Sisters, Mŭnkwŏn—who is at the head of her high school class in composition—has blossomed forth into blank verse to celebrate the little incident of her dancing with the deaf-mute on the playground—and some other things which she has been trying to do for the child.”

“Yes, there’s Arline fluttering her poetic wing-feathers now!” smiled the artist.

“She does well to flutter ’em.” Captain Andy looked from under his heavy eyelids, massive like all else about him, at the girlish figure sitting nearest to the Council Fire, holding a paper near to the blaze which picked out the sportive rainbows of embroidery on her dress and in her pearly head-band. “Thunder! if she didn’t preen ’em at all, even if they’re only pin-feathers, she might lose the use of some valu’ble ones, like the poor old owl, there, that gave me a sore finger for trying to coax him to fly,” breezily.

“Hush! listen; she’s beginning,” adjured Olive, as a rainbowed voice, arching a little cloud of girlish embarrassment, fell upon the firelight:

“When the Moon of Thunder causeth
School to cease and fields to blossom,
Sendeth forth its quivering light-bolt,
Heats the earth with dazzling sun-ray,
Come the children to the Playground,
Come the merry-hearted children,
Group round swing and teeter-ladder,
Dance their strange and quaint folk-dances
Underneath the flowering shade-tree,
Frolic in the sparkling water,
Shallow pool of rainbowed water,
But there cometh one among them,
Maiden of eight summers only,
Heareth not a note of music,
Hath no voice for song or laughter,
Slow of foot and dull of eye she,
And the pitying children shun her.
Then the flower of the Camp Fire,
‘Pretty Flower,’ Morning-Glory,
With a foot as light as foam-clot
And a tender heart within her,
Takes that sad-eyed maiden gently
By the hand and gaily leads her,
Wins her to pick grapes in fancy,
Grapes of sunshine from the greensward,
Calls the Bluebird through her window
To sing its song within that dumb heart,
Fashions her a robe of linen,
Brings her moccasin of leather....”

(“’Twas I who bought the ‘moccasins,’—such a pretty little pair of shoes with buckles!” put in Olive sotto voce.)

“And where’er her Camp Fire Sisters
Pitch their tents by lake or river,
This the deed shall be remembered
Of Welatáwesit—Morning-Glory!”

wound up Arline triumphantly, much to the embarrassment of the subject of the poem who sat midway of the circle round the Council Fire, shielding her scorched cheeks from the flame-light.

“Good! I call that pretty good!” Captain Andy clapped heartily. “’Tain’t poetry, but it goes—like a vessel under a ‘jury rig,’” with a discounting wink.

“Pshaw! I could write rafts of that stuff,” came softly from Olive Deering. “I do try my hand at it sometimes, but Sybil laughs at me.”

“Yes, no sooner did she get here this evening than she fell to composing a poem about that old caged owl:

“An owl he longed for his greenwood tree,
Was pining to be free,
And never a goose in the farmyard wide
Hissed half so sore as he!

That’s how it went!” laughed airy Sybil.

“Come now! to my mind that goes better than the other,” chuckled the mariner, whose one idea of verse was a lyric or a limerick. “Poetry that has no rhyme to it is a lame makeshift, like a ‘jury rig’ replacing real spars. So your little sister laughs at your—um-m—poetic wing-feathers, does she?” looking directly at Olive. “Well, I wouldn’t stunt ’em for all that! Seems to me, now, that Council Fire is a pretty good incubator for the hatching out of new wing-feathers—or pin-feathers, eh?” chuckling again.

“Jolly Neptune! which wing are they waving now, the right or the left—or have they grown a third, a new-fangled one, all in a hurry?” he inquired of his invisible sea-god, after an interval, as strange, crooning syllables, weirdly repeated, fell upon his ear:

“Gā’ hyo nē’ he
Hé ga’ hyo nē he ya
Gā hyo nē’ hé
Hé ga hyo nē he ya
Hó dji ge hyá!”

The fringed and beaded maidens were on their feet now, circling, shuffling, Indian fashion, round the fire, the leader shaking a child’s hand-rattle aloft between the fingers of her right hand whose arm waved mystically toward the fire.

“I do believe she’s the one that dared me to sing the last verse of that old fagot-song about a woman, a dog and an old walnut-tree bein’ improved by whacking!” rumbled the captain, rubbing his hands. “Gee whiz! it’s a good entertainment. And it ought to be, to keep a man o’ my age sitting for an hour an’ a half on a cold stone!” ruefully feeling his boulder-bench.

“Yes, she’s the very one: her Camp Fire name is Wĕltaak, meaning music, and she has the G clef, together with a bar of music, woven as a symbol into her head-band,” said Sybil.

“She’s ‘some singer,’ too. I wonder if the ghosts on old Wigwam Hill are waking up to listen to this?”

Captain Andy glanced behind him, swaying with a half-superstitious shudder as the sweet, eerie notes of the dance-music fell upon his ear:

Old Wigwam Hill did, indeed, seem, in an interlude of the dance, to ruffle every leaf upon its sides as if, Rip-Van-Winkle-like, it had fallen asleep a couple of hundred years ago, was now rubbing its eyes and waking up to be saluted by sounds much like those which had set it dozing, when braves in bonnets of feathers danced with their painted squaws upon the lake shore.

“That’s an Indian dance, the Leaf Dance, in honor of the leaves—idiwissi, or ‘tree hair’—thanking them for their grateful shade,” explained Olive, watching the winding, gesturing figures of the Camp Fire Girls, whose ceremonial dresses the Council Fire lit up with wonderfully dramatic effect as they circled round and round it.

“Morning-Glory taught it to them; she learned it from a friend who picked it up in the camps of the Creek Indians,” supplemented the artist.

“But those queer little Indian words that they’re chanting have no meaning; they’re just nonsense syllables such as ‘Tara-ra boom de ay!’ or something like that,” laughed Sybil.

“Goodness! how I wish a little niece o’ mine, named Kitty Sill, who spends half her time mooning under orchard leaves, could watch that dance,” suddenly interjected the captain in tones that seemed to come up from his boots they were so deep and yearning. “She’s a queer little thing, fourteen last month an’ as shy—just as shy as a sickle-bill curlew!” searching for a simile.

“What makes her like that?” asked Olive; she was beginning to feel an unaccountable interest in everything connected with Captain Andy; his nautical humor set against the harrowing experiences of his life, combined with his rescue of her Cousin Marvin, had, by this time, set every pulse of hero-worship in her throbbing.

“Search me! I don’t know what makes Kitty like that,” came the answer in a sort of deep, protesting shout. “Maybe, now, the well-bred pig that she confides in more’n she does in her family knows, but if she does, confound it! she ain’t telling.”

“A pet pig-g! Ugh!” Sybil shuddered.

“Her mother thinks that little Kitty has taken a troublesome notion o’ some sort into her head that makes her so faint-hearted an’ foolish. Who knows but that if she were to join these new-fangled—or old-fangled—Camp Fire Girls an’ grow a few extry wing-feathers—high-colored ones, so to speak, such as learning how to start a fire without matches, an’ dance like a leaf on a tree—she’d forget all about it?” speculatively.

“Oh! I’m sure she would,” came from Olive with a fervor that surprised herself. “That old owl is a horrible example against clipping one’s wings, not using any little powers one has!” laughingly. “You listen to that, Sybil, and don’t laugh at my flights any more!”

Yet that night when in the sanctum of her own room Olive seated herself upon a corner of her bed—a rare breach of orderliness for her—and thence, as from a white throne, reviewed the evening’s proceedings which she marshaled before her, her thoughts did not long dwell upon poetic flights or matchless fires—or even upon the dramatic Leaf Dance.

They rested chiefly upon the initiation of the new Fire Maker, of a girl standing before the Council Fire, promising to tend, as her fathers had tended, those twin-fires which are the very heart-flame of humanity, without which, as Captain Andy said, the world would be cold as an ice-jammed hull.

Feeling is life. And there is nothing like a romantic ritual for stirring emotion. Olive felt it tingle all over her.

Her chin quivered as she looked up at the picture of a beautiful woman upon the delicately tinted wall of the pretty bedroom—that of the mother who had died when she was twelve.

The dark Southern eyes, which her own reflected, called to her.

She rose and stood before the picture.

“Mother!” she whispered, palpitating. “Mother!” above a breath. “I am scarce sixteen and a half now: I—might—begin to take your place more with Father—and with Sybil, too!”

When, in that holy of holies, a girl’s prayer-nook, Olive knelt a little later, the growing wing-feather for which she prayed was not a rhyming-power—nor power to match any one of the feats which she had to-night seen performed—but that she might soar to be like her mother.

CHAPTER V

A MINIATURE

“Jessica! Ho! Jessica-a. Olive is looking for you-u, Jessica. She’s gone into the library now.” Sybil Deering’s high, laughing voice, rilling and trilling on terminal vowels like the spring note of a meadow-lark, rang up the broad staircase of the Deering mansion.

“Oh! is she? I’m coming. I’ll be down in just a minute,” sang back the girlish tones which had called the Bluebird on the playground; in the smallest of the guest-rooms upstairs—a pretty nest, like Olive’s bedroom—Jessica Holley laid down a paint-brush, closed a box of water-colors which looked as if it had seen service in other hands than hers, thrust aside a smeared palette, daubed with burnt sienna, yellow and black, on which she had been experimenting with colors in order to get something like the right shade for a Camp Fire Girl’s ceremonial dress of khaki and, forthwith, proceeded to the library.

“Jessica, when are we going to take those things to the little deaf-and-dumb girl, the frock you made for her—which you exhibited at the Council Fire last night—and the shoes I bought? I’m just longing to see her in them,” said Olive directly she showed her nose within the realm of books.

“Immediately after luncheon; I’ve got a plan. I’m going to call up Arline and Sally—Betty Ayres wants to come with us, too—and tell them about it; we’ll time our start so’s to arrive on the playground a little after two o’clock, before the playground teachers get back from dinner, and if little ’Becca is there (did I tell you I had found out that her name is Rebecca?) we’ll just inveigle her into a shed and dress her up in the new finery, throw away the old shoes, perhaps, the grey frock, too—then, when the teachers turn up and the dancing begins, the other children won’t know her.”

“She won’t know herself. Did you find out whether she was born deaf and dumb?”

“No. She became stone-deaf at four years old after scarlet fever; then she gradually lost the power of speech, too, so her mother told one of the playground teachers. Her parents are Russian Jews who have only been a couple of years in this country. The teacher thinks that some of the croaking sounds she makes are fragments of words in her own tongue that she remembers. And once when some boys were shouting ‘Swing! Swing!’ upon the playground, ’Becca said ‘Swing!’ quite clearly, as if she caught some vibration of the sound.”

“I should think she could be taught to speak again by and by.” Olive looked hopeful. “Come out of your dreamland, Jessica,” she added laughingly; “stick to Rebecca and the playground plan! Whenever you’re in the library, morning, noon or night, you’re staring at that stained-glass window. I believe you’ve fallen in love with the young scribe who’s bending over a parchment book in it.”

“No, but I’m in love with his brown robe.” Jessica’s eyes went up to the rich gold-brown of the young monk’s habit. “I’ve just been trying to get something like that tint on my palette up-stairs, so as to paint the ceremonial dress on the figure of a Camp Fire Girl. Besides”—the blue-grey eyes of Morning-Glory rested reverently upon the soft radiance of the painted window through which the daylight flickered, glorified—“besides, as you know, Olive, my father was a stained-glass artist; he designed beautiful windows like that, worked out his designs in water-colors on paper and afterward—when the great sheet of glass had been properly prepared—painted the window itself—oil-painting, using metallic paints.”

“Is that how it’s done?” queried Olive. “I love this library window. And I like to study the stained-glass windows in church, too—sometimes I forget to say my prayers when I’m looking at them!” in merry penitence.

“I, too! My father used to paint the saints’ and cherubs’ heads so beautifully, painting both sides of the glass, the figure in some dull tint, brown or grey, on the right side, to face the people and the brilliant, the illuminating colors, as he called them, upon the back, the other side of the sheet of glass, so’s to shine through,” looking up at the translucent rays streaming through the brown monkish figure.

“Did you use to watch him while he was painting?”

“Occasionally I did, perched on a chair beside his tall, oblong easel that had the glass upon it.... He let me when he could, because he had it all planned out that I—too——”

The last words were very thin and low and broke off, their snapped thread being lost in the rich tangle of colors, ruby and gold, with other glories wonderfully interwoven, which bathed that corner of the room where the pictured medieval scribe sat poring over his written book.

Olive moved a little uneasily. She felt uncomfortable when Jessica spoke of her father, because, having lost a mother herself, she understood what bereavement meant, but to lose both parents, as the other girl had done, to have absolutely no nearer living relative than Cousin Anne, related to Jessica through her mother’s mother as she was to Olive through her father’s father; that was terrible, indeed!

Therefore out of her fidgetings Olive evolved a remark which led away from the glorious window and stained glass in general.

“Do you know, I think that it was just too awfully good of you to spend all day yesterday sewing upon that white frock for little ’Becca, the dumb child,” she said with girlish gush.

“Oh! that was nothing; I enjoyed doing it. Cousin Anne deserves more than half the praise; ’twas she who bought the material; I—I didn’t have the money!”

Jessica spoke rather absent-mindedly, her gaze still wavering between the ruby window-nook and Olive.

“What!” breathed the latter. “Oh, you poor dear! Jessica, Father never thought of it, I’m sure, but I’m going to drop a hint to him, this very day, that he might make you a monthly allowance for pocket-money, now that you’ve come to live with us for a year or two, just as he does with Sybil and me. Oh-h! you wouldn’t like it, eh?” in crestfallen echo.

“Olive!” The Morning-Glory’s arms fell limply to her sides. Her skin, naturally clear and colorless as a pure white specimen of her name-flower, looked wan in the gold and crimson shafts of light streaming from the stained window. “Oh-h! Olive, I wouldn’t have you do that, hint anything—not for the world. Oh, don’t you think I feel it enough—that I——”

The gusty words splashed through the first drops of a tear-fall so sudden that it seemed as if the rainbowed colors had begun to drip.

A wet and crumpled-up Morning-Glory, all draggled upon its vine of girlish courage, dropped into a library chair, turning a streaming face to hide against the leather chair-back.

“Oh, honey, I never—meant——” came brokenly from Olive.

“I know—I know you never meant to be anything but lovely to me!” sobbed the figure in the chair. “But, oh”—wildly weeping—“if my father or my mother could have lived! I know that your father, Olive—that Mr. Deering—invited me to come here for this last year or so that I’ll be in high school, when he had never even seen me, simply because Cousin Anne was so worried about my having nowhere—nowhere to go after Auntie (of course, she wasn’t really my auntie, only a friend of Mother’s who took me in after Mother died) sailed for China with her husband who’s a missionary. They didn’t think that China, the part that she’s going to, would be good for me!” pathetically.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t—pig-tails and Boxers and stuff!” wailed Olive helplessly, her face wet too, as if the window’s melting shafts of color dripped upon it. “There, Jessica! There, Jess darling; you know we all just love to have you with us!” perching upon the arm of the library chair, laying her beautiful dark head with the ringlet curl against the stricken brown one.

The curl tickled Jessica’s neck; impulsively she caught and kissed it, fondled it like a flower against her wet cheek.

“Yes, ev-er-ybody has been so good to me,” she gasped, reviving enough for heartfelt emphasis. “You’ve shared things with me, Sybil and you; and Cousin Anne insists on giving me a little pocket-money from time to time, just as she gives me clothes—she’s so dear!—and just as she’s insisting on paying my camp-board in that seashore camp, so that I may have the fun of going with the other girls to those beautiful Sugarloaf sand-dunes.”

Sugarloaf! Never did sugar-lump drop into a tart cup with more ameliorating sweetness than dropped that word, now, into the troubled waters pulsing to and fro between the girls’ hearts, although it breathed of brine, not sugar.

Olive started, sat up straight upon the chair-arm. She had thought of more words to conjure with, to win back joy or, at any rate, distract from sorrow.

“Jessica!” she said solemnly, “I’ve got a teeter-ladder in my brain. Ever since we visited the playground that day I’ve had a teeter-ladder in my head.”

Jessica choked upon the next sob which mixed itself up with her startled breath. Her nose ceased burrowing in the leather nest of a chair-button. She sat up and turned her face round.

“Oh! you needn’t stare at me; I’m not going out of my mind; I haven’t got a giant stride there, too,” laughingly. “But the ladder keeps seesawing all the time; it’s like a game of ‘Jenkins: Hands up! Hands down!’ One minute the ladder teeters down toward the Sugarloaf, and the hotel, that Father proposed our going to this summer, Sybil and I, is away up in the air, with the teacher of modern dancing from whom we’re to take lessons, crowing on top: Cock-a-doodle-doo! Tooraloo! Like that!

“Next minute down with the hotel—up with the Sugarloaf and the Camp Fire Girls dancing the Leaf Dance among the white dunes!”

Olive had stars in the dreamy black of her eyes, now; they were gazing far away.

“What on earth do you mean: not that you’re thinking of becoming a Camp Fire Girl—joining our Morning-Glory Camp Fire? Oh, you know how I’ve wanted you to do that, Olive!” A little lightning-spurt of excitement flashed through Jessica’s tears. “Oh, Sugarloaf and sugarloons!” she gasped, shaky laughter beginning to patter like crystal hail through the rain-drops, the end of the shower. “Why, ’twould just be sugar through and through that camping trip if Sybil and you should come with us.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Olive shook her head sagely. “If I were to try my hand at the camp cooking, I’m afraid the effects would be bitter, not sweet,” with a grimace. “You know Father says that my cookery ought to be tried first on the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals before any member of the animal kingdom should be allowed to partake of it!” Here, even the satiny ringlet curling down Olive’s white neck on to the shoulder of her white dress laughed—she clung to that black curl since she put her hair up, for good, six months before.

“I suppose that if Mother had lived I’d have learned to do a great many things that I don’t know much about now,” she went on softly. “Cook never wanted us in the kitchen; so we stayed out of it. Cousin Anne says that I’m not a bit ‘domestic.’ But sometimes”—the dark eyes shone wistfully—“something just swells up so big in me that I feel as if I shall simply burst if I don’t get it out of my system!” becoming, in turn, tragically confidential. “I’ve tried working it off in the rhymes that Sybil laughs at; I persuaded Father to let me take painting lessons outside of school-hours, but I don’t believe I’ll ever paint anything that a cow would care to look at,” laughing ruefully, “whatever you may do! Cook (you know she cooked for Father and Mother before I was born and she’s Irish) saw one of my pictures and I heard her say to herself: ‘Tear an’ ages! looks as if that old guinea-hen had got some paint on her claws and scratched on the paper.’ Truth and honor! that’s what she did say!”

Jessica was now laughing spasmodically, the bright drops upon her eyelashes winking at the other girl’s gropings after self-expression.

“All I can do, it seems to me, is, as I heard Captain Andy singing to himself last night during part of the Council Fire program, to:

“‘Laugh a little and sing a little,
And work a little and play a little,
And fiddle a little and foot it a little,
As bravely as I can!’”

Olive laughingly footed it round the library, burlesquing her own limitations. “And I don’t know whether I could even ‘foot it’ very far if it came to a tramp,” she said over her shoulder. “Goodness! since Sybil and I have used the automobile so much, as Father drives himself in the smaller car, I don’t even ‘sing the song of feet’ except when I play tennis or go round the golf course with Dad.... Perhaps, if I joined the Camp Fire Girls, I might grow a few new wing-feathers, as Captain Andy wants his little niece to do—the niece that moons in an orchard and goes round with a pet pig and a duck for followers—she must be awfully ‘witchetty,’ eh?”

“I should think so!” came from a now smiling Morning-Glory in the leather chair.

“Gracious! there’s the luncheon bell and we must get through with the meal as quickly as we can if we’re to carry out your plan, Jess, of getting to the playground and dressing up little ’Becca before the teachers get back and the folk-dancing begins.”

“Oh! I must run and bathe my face.” Jessica made for the library-door in a flurry. “First—first, I want to hug you, Olive. And you won’t think, will you, that I’m not just too awfully grateful to you all for making me so—so happy here?

“It was meddling with Papa’s old paint-box this morning that broke me all up,” added the seventeen-year-old girl to herself, dashing up the broad staircase which she had descended a little while ago, to her own room. “That, and thinking of how I used sometimes to sit by him when he was painting a saint’s head on glass for some beautiful window!” (A vigorous splash with a cold sponge.) “Mother said he ran to Saints’ Heads!” (Splash and choke!) “And he used to say that I inherited his talent and love of color and that girls were taking up stained-glass work—window-painting—now, making a success of it, too. I only wish I could!” (Splash, splash, splash, and a girl forcing a dripping sponge into her mouth, to drown a returning sob, because she felt that it would not be “game” to depress with tears or the semblance of them the midday meal of those who had generously given her a home!) “And, whatever comes, I’ve got to be as brave as my great-gran’daddy!” she gasped the next minute, through her set teeth, glancing at a small table, on which, beside the disturbing paint-box, lay an old-fashioned, oval leather case, with a tarnished gold stripe round its edge.

Towel in hand, Jessica impulsively sprang toward the table, touched a spring and disclosed a small miniature, older still than the case, painted on ivory, set in gold, showing a face which, if the artist of ninety-odd years ago painted truly, was very like the Morning-Glory one now hanging over it: the same crest of light brown hair over the forehead, the same naturally laughing grey-blue eyes. “My mother’s grandfather, Captain Josiah Dee, you were a very handsome young man when that miniature was painted, let me tell you!” she gurgled, biting upon a corner of the damask towel in a fighting attempt to regain composure by forcing her thoughts to dwell lightly for a minute upon the manly shoulders in the blue coat with brass buttons and the high stock-collar under a dimpled chin—her own had a dimple like it! “You have such a living smile; you always seem to be alive and laughing at me when I feel blue! Well! You saved lots of lives when you commanded a big ship, but were drowned, yourself, at last. I must be as brave as you were! And, great-gran’daddy dear, let me tell you, too, I’m not altogether alone, because I’ve got Cousin Anne and I’m a Camp Fire Girl—and Olive’s a dear; wouldn’t she be a dream—just a Camp Fire Girl’s dream—in a ceremonial dress and beaded head-band, with her black hair in two long plaits and her dark eyes?”

The oval case shut with a click.

Olive’s hair and eyes looked as dreamily beautiful in a simple white dress as they would have done in gold-brown khaki when, three-quarters of an hour later, she wended her way, together with four other girls, toward that poor and crowded quarter of the city of Clevedon whose tall factory chimneys enshrined the public playground—largely a garden of foreign buds—whither their steps were bent.

Yet not one of her companions envied that hair its raven lustre or the grace of the small head it crowned, for if they were not all four beauties, at least they were true daughters of Columbia who, fair herself, seldom or never hatches an ugly duckling.

There was one point of envy among them, so far as Sally, Betty, and Arline were concerned—the glass buttons on Jessica’s blouse!

“Oh! those ‘Wohelo’ heart-shaped buttons!” Sally’s eyes and the July sky-beams together picked out the decorative W—she was sure it meant to be a W—within the blue heart of glass. “And that white blouse with the blue facings—it just brings out the color of your eyes, ‘Glory,’” calling Jessica, the oldest of the quintette, by the name which, growing out of an incident, had clung to her in childhood, to blossom later into her Camp Fire title.

“Cousin Anne gave it to me on my birthday and my lavender smock frock, too; I made the lavender Tam myself.” The Morning-Glory was utterly smiling again, forgetting even the brass buttons on the coat of her great-grandfather, the only relative besides Cousin Anne who seemed to her, in a way, to live and preside over her girlhood, forgetting them and him in that jolliest of youth’s experiences, to be abroad with a small band of admiring individuals of its own age and sex.

Looking back, mentally, she saw that seventeenth birthday, separated from her only by a hand-span of fourteen days, standing in the way and smiling at her, not yet hidden by any curve in the highroad of life nor blotted out by any startling event.

Looking forward, literally, she saw a different vision in ugly contrast to delicate smock and Wohelo blouse: a vision that at a distance suggested nothing so strongly as a bedizened magpie.

“Who’s that swinging on the garden gate?” burst forth Betty.

“Oh! it’s that girl with the funny surname—‘Tingle,’ isn’t it—who entered high school last January.” The pretty shell-pink tints of Arline’s complexion—her strong point—deepened with disfavor as she looked ahead at the restless gate, one of a scattered row decorating one side of a raw new street whose lately erected dwellings faced depressingly upon vacant lots, piles of sand and earth, a wheelbarrow or two, and the gaping bones of skeleton houses.

“Yes, and if ever there was a surname invented that rang true to life, it’s that one—so far as she’s concerned!” Sally, throwing up her eyes, rose to a dramatic outburst. “Penelope Tingle! Just think of it! And she gives you the ‘tingles’ all over when you come within a yard of her. The ‘Black and White Warbler’ some of the high school boys who are interested in bird-study call her, because her voice is so high an’ thin an’ wiry and her laugh like a hiss.”

“Her clothes would set me tingling worse than her voice; they talk to you before ever you get near her!” Olive’s nostrils quivered.

“Hush! we’re almost upon her—and the white gate,” came from Jessica.

“Hul-lo-a! Hullo! Sal-ly.” The voice which rang out from that swinging gate as the quintette of girls ranged abreast of it had at this moment more of the stinging quality of a blue jay’s when it wakes one at sunrise than of any species of warbler; the Tingle girl’s clothing must partly have inspired the boys’ nickname: black and white of the loudest upright stripes upon the swinging skirt, black and white in brindled circles on the too visible expanse of stockings, enlivened by a wisp of a rose-colored girdle and an old-rose felt hat with a tarnished quill.

These latter touches of color being a trifle faded had the dejected air of not being able to vie with the thick ruddiness of Penelope’s wrists which clung to the gate-bars and the florid hue of her plump cheeks.

“Hullo-o, Sally! Is—is it ‘nobody home’ this morning? Don’t you want to speak to me?” challenged the jay-like voice, as Penelope’s face hung out over the gate.

At this the golden firefly in Sally’s eyes wheeled doubtfully, now toward that raw, new white gate, now toward Olive: Olive, whose father was a very important personage, indeed, and her father’s employer at the Works; Olive, who had plainly inherited the flower of good breeding, nourished in the soil of wealth. And reading a contempt for Tingles and tingling voices in Olive’s face, little horse-loving Sally, who generally could be the best kind of a small sportswoman, figuratively gathered her garments (neat and trim as when she was mounted, from her simple whip-cord skirt to her Camp Fire Girl’s knockabout hat) about her and, like the priest and Levite of old, passed by on the other side, leaving Penelope to her wounding manners and with a bruise in her heart.

All of which means that she returned Penelope’s vociferous greeting with a stiff nod only suited to the inside of an ice-house!

The Tingle girl ceased swinging as if petrified and stared after her; then she burst into a high shriek of exasperated laughter and hailed a boy upon a vacant lot across the street.

“Hullo! Rolie,” she cried, “do you know that there’s a frost this morning; it froze hard here just now,” pointing her slangy sarcasm by a red forefinger leveled at Sally’s receding back.

“Ss-sh! you’re crazy,” expostulated the lad who wore a Boy Scout suit.

“If I’m ‘crazy,’ you’re hazy—hazy in the brain! He! He! He! Hi! Ha!” The retort and the shrill laughter followed the quintette of girls down the street.

“Isn’t she dreadful?” gasped fair little Betty who had named the Morning-Glory Camp Fire. “I should think she is one big tingle; henceforth I’ll feel her a mile off!”

“Perfectly horrid!” acquiesced Olive.

Sally’s under-lip suddenly quivered; one of her lightning changes of mood breezed up in her, almost wafting her back toward the gate; she felt the same twinge of penitence that occasionally nipped her for having once lightly denounced Olive and her sister Sybil as “all fluff and stuff,” chiefly because, hitherto, they had taken little notice of her, when, now, she was forced to admit that Olive’s inner fabric was anything but unduly “fluffy.”

“Perhaps it’s not Penelope’s fault that she’s like that,” she put forward slowly. “The Tingles haven’t been long in the city and they come to our church, so my mother went to call on Mrs. Tingle—she’s not the tingling sort at all; she’s a very nice, refined woman—but isn’t it strange she has the very same affliction, in a way, as that deaf-and-dumb child whom we’re going to see now?” glancing at a white parcel under Jessica’s arm. “She’s absolutely deaf, too, having lost her hearing after an illness, and is losing her speech, also, so that she has to write things down for callers. Mother said that she lacked the very sense that would enable her to correct Penelope’s manners. But the funny part of it is,” ran on Sally volubly, “that she said Pen—Penny, as she calls her—was her right hand about the house, working so hard—since her father lost money lately—and managing her young brothers so well.”

“Imagine it! There must be two Pennies, then, one of brass, the other of gold,” laughed Jessica.

“Yes, when Mother told all that to the Guardian of our Camp Fire, Miss Dewey, she said it was too bad that Penelope shouldn’t have her hard duties touched up and made interesting by winning honor-beads for them and that she was going to invite her to join our Morning-Glory Camp Fire—there’s no Camp Fire circle at the church that Pen and I attend. Miss Dewey thinks that it would tone her down a lot to wear a ceremonial dress and sing stately songs, with mystic motions.”

“Goodness! you might as well try to make a parrot pray,” interjected Betty.

“I don’t know—now!” This from the Rainbow, Arline. “Don’t you remember, Sally, how you and I felt about a year ago when we were just fifteen”—with a great air of maturity—“we felt awkward and as if nobody loved us,” plaintively; “we didn’t know whether to put our hair up or not; we felt too old to run and play with the boys as we used to do——”

“You won’t feel that way when you’re eighteen; I’ll soon be young enough for it again,” put in Morning-Glory sagely.

“And yet we weren’t old enough to do as our older sisters and friends did, receive formal calls from boys and have them invite us very prettily to go to places!” Thus the Rainbow again took up the chant of a fifteen-year-old girl’s problems, ending with this Jubilate: “’Twas then that ‘Camp Fire’ came in so well, wasn’t it? Since it took hold of us, six months ago, we’ve been just so busy doing new things, dressing up and winning honors, that we haven’t had time to think of ourselves at all. Maybe Penelope is at the awkward age, too, without any home help such as we had.”

“Maybe so! Let’s drop the tingling penny now, anyway!” suggested Betty with a chuckle. “Arline says she feels too old to race with boys as she used to do, but whether we run with them or not, we’ll run into them, I expect, when we go camping this summer, for Captain Andy says that there’s a Boy Scout Camp on some other sand-dunes, just across the river from the Sugarloaf, with harbor seals and breakers an’ quicksands and all sorts of queer obstacles between them and us!”

“Too bad! Boys come in handy, sometimes, when you fish off the rocks with a pole and don’t want to handle the bait,” suggested Sally reflectively.

“I hear that there will be two Boy Scout troops in that camp,” discoursed Betty again, “one from the neighborhood of this city and one from that wild tidal river an’ bay region where we’re going; the Scoutmasters are cousins. Well! here we are at the playground now.”

“Tired, Olive?” Jessica linked her arm tenderly through Olive Deering’s; that library scene had drawn them very close together.

“No-o,” answered Olive absent-mindedly, hardly hearing her own monosyllable because of the swish of that teeter-ladder of indecision in her brain, now seesawing at a gallop: “If that tingling Penelope should join the Morning-Glory Camp Fire and go with these other girls to the camp on the Sugarloaf dunes, I sha’n’t; Sybil and I will go to that big, beautiful hotel and simply amuse ourselves!” So thought said. And so she left it, with the hotel swinging on high, a dizzy castle in the air.

“Oh! here’s that funny little Jacob, who’s ‘all de olds in de world,’ running to meet us,” cried Morning-Glory meanwhile. “I hope we’ll find poor little silent ’Becca as easily; ’twill be such fun to dress her up and ‘make her over’ before the teachers get back to the playground, after dinner, and the afternoon dancing begins!” hugging her tissue-paper parcel, containing the white frock in which every stitch had been set by her own patient fingers, together with the buckled shoes, Olive’s gift.

Jacob of the raven locks seemed almost as much excited as when the horse bolted with the playground piano: his small brown fingers clutched the hem of his hanging blouse.

“Ha! we haf de big fire las’ night to our house,” he proclaimed. “My babee”—pointing to the insect-like infant whom Sally had saved from being trampled by stopping the playground horse—“my babee she get a match an’ de pape’ an’ she wipe dem on de wall an’ de fire come. An’ w’en de big mans w’at make de fire out shay: ‘Who make dis fire?’ my babee she shay: ‘Me! Me! Me!’”

“What a depraved little ‘firebug’—isn’t that the police word? Sorry I saved her!” exclaimed Sally.

Jessica did not linger for Jacob’s dramatic recital; she was walking on over the broad public playground, past the Silver Twins and the flowering catalpa tree on the edge of whose island of shade she had called the Bluebird through a dumb child’s window, on toward the great, gleaming bathing-pool—that artificial sheet of shallow water—in an eager search for little ’Becca.

By her side ran a self-constituted escort, a strange, foreign child whom she had not seen before, catching with elfin fingers at the silver bracelet, the Fire Maker’s bracelet, last night received, on Jessica’s wrist.

“Ach! you haf de prit-ty br-racelet,” murmured the little foreigner’s guttural accents. “I haf de br-racelet-te, too, to my home. I haf de gol’ necklace to my home. I haf de pink silk stocking; I haf de blue silk stocking”—thrusting forward, first, one thin leg, then the other, in coarse and faded cotton. “I haf de lots of ice-cr-ream to my home!”

“Poor little thing; she probably hasn’t got a single one of them!” The Morning-Glory’s eyes were misty as she looked down upon the small braggart.

“Where are you going?” shrieked Jacob after her.

“To the moon!” she answered absently, looking steadily ahead, searching the feathery edges of the wide bathing-pool in which some barelegged children were paddling for little ’Becca in the out-at-toe shoes and coarse grey frock, in order to transform her into something like a stout fairy, before the folk-dancing should begin.

“To de—moon? Take me!” screamed Jacob, all agog for any excursion in such good company.

Was it from the moon—the now invisible Thunder Moon of July—or from the edge of some far planet of gloom that the sudden cry came, a cry with a note of menace in it, of sobbing horror, of fear, wiping out Jacob’s childish plea from the face of the sunshine?

A cry in the guttural accents, the broken English that attacked the girls’ ears everywhere on this playground!

A cry that mocked the fragrance of the pyramidal catalpa blossoms and blanched the rainbowed fountain at the heart of the bathing-pool until it frowned like a specter!

“’Becca!” gasped Jessica, flattening her soft parcel against her heaving breast. “’Becca!” She knew not why she said it.

CHAPTER VI

THE GREEN CROSS

The next minute she knew.

The splashing cries which came from the feathered edges of the bathing-pool rushed toward her like a great water-wave tipped with foreign foam, about which there was nothing articulate until, presently, the spray of one clear shriek was tossed up: “’Becca! Rebecca!”

The Morning-Glory’s face was a very white flower now, all crumpled by fear, as was the flattened parcel she hugged, the parcel that was to have worked a metamorphosis.

“’Becca she—she go down, stay down, under de water. She haf eat de green apple—she sick—she down under de water—she not come up—eugh!” So the spray-like shriek spread itself out into a cloud of words as a little French girl of six or seven in a bathing-suit came flying, wild-eyed, toward the one tall figure she saw, the girl with shiny blue glass buttons on her blouse, who frantically hugged a small parcel.

“Where? Where? Show me where!” The figure dropped the parcel with a scream and seized the hand of the newsbearer. “Show me where!”

Down into the feathery ripples—the tiny ripples that broke so gently upon their earthy rim as if protesting that their shallow innocence couldn’t do any harm—they went together, barelegged child and skirted girl who didn’t even wait to toss off a shoe.

“’Becca she canno’ speak—no’ cry, like me—jus’ ketch her ‘tummy’ an’ fall—no’ come up!” The raving child vivaciously illustrated her meaning by pounding with a wet left fist upon her own little rounded stomach, rather full of unripe apples, too.

“Where? Where?” was all the girl could say. “Drowning! She must be drowning in two or three feet of water—lying on the bottom of the bathing-pool!” raged her thought, storming like a thunderclap in her ears.

The sheet-like pool was wide and wan, covering half an acre, no depth of color anywhere, except where the brilliant afternoon sun created an island sunburst in the water around the fountain and where near the pool’s edge it showed topsy-turvy, moving pictures, pink and yellow, of children standing or promenading on their heads, as if in fear.

Jessica’s agonized promenade was short and splashing. Now the water rose above her knees as she dragged herself and her clothing through it! “Where? Where?” was still all her seemingly water-logged tongue could say.

“I’ll t’ink some dere—dere she’ll go down,—’Becca!” answered, at last, the pluckily wading, little French child, who clung to her right hand, pointing to a rainbow-shaft from the fountain leveled downward, too, like an exploring finger.

And there the rainbow and Jessica found her—at the burnished point to which she in her dumb play had waded forth through two feet and a half of water to catch that rainbow—lying all dressed in the old grey frock and broken footwear beneath the island sunburst of the fountain.

Here the girl, looking down, saw a dark spot, a hair-fringed mound upon the pool’s bottom, barely covered by a glassy inch or two of ripples—head submerged!

With a choking cry she stooped and dragged it up, lifted it. She was strong and athletic for her seventeen years, but her whole girlish framework rocked and shuddered, almost collapsed, as she did so, bowed by an unexpected gust of weight.

The dumb child was eight years old, stout and chunky; now, unconscious, clogged by the leaden weight of water in her little clothing, swamped by green fruit, she would have made a taxing burden for a man.

“Father—Father in Heaven, give me strength—help me—strength to carry her out of the pool! Strength, Father—strength!”

Half-aloud, irrepressibly, the cry that ever comes first in dire need rocked between the young girl’s parted, gasping lips—she rocking with it, to the roots, like a sapling in flood.

The childish mound of weight and water sank again until it touched the glassy ripples, seeming as if it dragged her very flesh with it, while the French child, submerged to her wallowing armpits, moaned beside her.

Then the round, strained arm that flashed with the silver of the Fire Maker’s bracelet, aided by its fellow, managed, somehow, to gather up that leaden weight again, to hold it above the thin sheet of water, to start with it, staggering toward the earthen bank.

“Is she drowned—dead? How long did she lie there? How far can I carry her?” The questions spun like a water-worked wheel in Jessica’s brain, grinding out each staggering step. “Oh! isn’t it horrible? And we were going to dress her up! The frock I made her! Green apples! Cramp!... Oh, I’m letting her down! It’s too much. I—c-can’t!”

The girl’s dizzy gaze swam before her to the bank. She saw the catalpa tree—a hundred miles off! She saw strange, steely shapes of playground apparatus on another continent, as it were. Dimly she beheld the forms of other girls, her companions, who had come with her, wading through the light, crisp feathers of water to her help.

Then she saw something else. She heard a shout. Down the playground slope to the innocent looking pool’s edge, like an arrow launched from nowhere, tore a brown figure, coming at the rate of a hundred yards to a dozen seconds.

It was a knightly figure, tall, slimly erect, with green and red stripes, together with many rich, quivering points of color flashing in an embroidered jumble upon its right sleeve, the highest color-point green that gleamed like an emerald eye against a blood-red background as the flying water hit it.

And where she wore the silver of rank upon her braceleted arm, tortured in a half-fainting effort to struggle onward with her dripping burden, it showed a kindred gleam of silver in the eagle drooping from a red, white, and blue ribbon on its left breast.

“Hang on, just a second! Hold up—I’ll take her!” It seemed to be the American Eagle, dangling from the tricolored ribbon, that screamed the encouragement.

Another second, and the arm that wore the Fire Maker’s bracelet, typical of the fire at the heart that waters could not quench, had yielded its unconscious burden—swamping cargo of green apples and all—to that stronger right arm with the dancing specks of color upon the sleeve.

“Do you know how long she’s been under water? One of the children just told me what was going on here!” panted the newcomer with the silver eagle on his breast as he laid poor little Rebecca, silent forever, as it seemed, face downward, upon the nearest patch of playground grass where the sunbeams mocked her wet, weed-like hair and the broken old shoes, as full of water, now, as she was herself.

“I don’t know how long she lay there—on the bottom of the pool.” Involuntarily Jessica pressed her left hand to her heart which was doing strange “stunts,” while with her right she helped the tired French child to the bank.

“And I don’t know whether there’s life in her still or not!” The lad in khaki had breathlessly flung his broad, olive-green hat upon the grass and was stretching Rebecca’s limp arms out on either side of her head, not a quiver of which gave token that the torch of her dumb existence was still alight in some covert corner of her dripping body. He looked up at the other four girls, Jessica’s companions, who, wet about the ankles, were hovering, pale-faced, near. “One or two of you had better run to the nearest pay-station and telephone for a doctor,” he gasped, “if there isn’t a doctor’s office near. We may not be able to bring her to! It may take the pulmotor—I could use that if we had it. Turn her face a little to one side, so that she can get the air!” This to his fellow-worker, Jessica, who obeyed, her breath hissing between her teeth in long, shivering, yearning gasps.

“Who’d ever have thought of any child drowning in that toy pool—two feet an’ a half of water at deepest?” groaned the lad as he knelt astride of the prostrate little figure, now looking haggard and horrified.

“Two feet and a half of water—and green apples!” Jessica corrected him.

His hands were quickly finding the spaces between the rigid little limbs. Alternately he pressed with all the weight of his strong young shoulders upon them, then relaxed, setting up a bellows-like motion to expel the playground pool—as much of it as ’Becca had swallowed—from her air-passages and draw in fresh air.

“Could you get at my watch in my vest pocket and time this?”

Jessica obeyed.

“Two of the girls have gone to find a doctor,” she said, glancing at the disappearing forms of Sally and Betty. “Keep away; we mustn’t get too near”—this to the other two—“we mustn’t take the air from her.”

“You know something about first aid then; are you timing this work? It ought to be about a dozen strokes to a minute.” The bestriding lad directed his question to the first rescuer—the girl-rescuer—by the motion of an eyelid, the while his strong hands, tanned to the color of his khaki uniform, rose and fell rhythmically upon the framework of ’Becca’s dumb little heart, he trying so hard to breathe for her through those brown hands, to force artificial respiration.

The silver swooping eagle above his heaving heart shook and palpitated with his efforts.

A redness grew under his eyes, as under Jessica’s, where horror and anxiety laid their congesting fingers.

But the many rich points of color upon his khaki sleeve, yellow, green, red, white, each of them a little embroidered design in silk, mingled their merits with the sunbeams which wove of them a rich arabesque that flashed and played beneath the most noticeable of the badges, the emerald eye against a blood-red background which shone, green as hope, when he took the little victim of the bathing-pool from Jessica’s arms.

No peering eye, indeed, this merit badge, but the green cross of the first aid, awarded for proficiency in succor, hopeful still upon its red ground, enclosed in a green circle.

Suddenly that verdant hope of which it spoke blossomed! It thrilled and rioted through Jessica.

“Oh! perhaps we sha’n’t need a doctor—or the pulmotor. I saw her eyelids quiver. She may not have been three minutes under water.” The timing watch in the girl’s hand shook. “Keep off the other children, Olive—Arline—don’t let them get near, to draw the oxygen from her!”

Yes, slowly the breath of life was wavering back into its dumb tabernacle: through ’Becca’s blue, swollen lips came a slow, uncertain shiver, drawn from the hands working upon her, a quivering gasp.

“Oh! can’t I rub her a little now, toward the heart—to start it up—I know just how; I have a Red Cross diploma for first aid—I’m a Camp Fire Girl!” The sobbing, gurgling exclamation burst from Jessica; on the heels of the sob came a little whistling, thrush-like note like the beginning of a song, a song of succor.

“Yes, I think you might—now—while I ‘piece in’ her breathing.”

“Here, Olive, you hold the watch; it isn’t so important to time the pressures any more; she’s coming round—coming round all right!”

With the timepiece upon her palm ticking little Rebecca’s life back, measuring the intervals between her reviving gasps, Olive stood and watched.

Golden lad! Dripping girl, a year his junior! Camp Fire Girl! Eagle Scout! Together they worked and rubbed. And life, kindly life, so reluctant to quit even a dumb tabernacle, answered their call, stealing upon slow wings of returning circulation through the silent child’s body.

Suddenly the timepiece trembled in the hand that held it. That of which Olive had spoken in the library as swelling up so big in her at times; the nameless tide of a young girl’s ideals, of her rapture at beauty, her adoration of the Father’s Presence she saw in it, her dim drawings toward service and hero-worship; that impulsive tide rose so high in her now that it had to find a temporary outlet in the tears of agitation and relief stealing down her cheeks.

Only a temporary one! Olive had groped girlishly to find a channel of self-expression for that tide; she had tried to let it ooze out of her in rhyming, to work it off in painting—or attempts thereat.

But here she was quivering from head to foot with the sudden discovery that in the living picture before her, the prostrate child and those two kneeling figures upon the playground grass, there was something nobler than pen or paint-brush could depict, the highest form of self-expression.

And her heart surging up within her vaguely named that picture, “Succor.”

Succor was in the healing warmth of the sunlight that, now again, made its brightness felt.

Succor seemed waving its wings among the branches of the near-by willow-tree that brooded over the scene—not one helpless wing, but two: the Will to help and the trained Ability to do it.

Three hours later two girls sat one on each side of a cot in the children’s ward of a city hospital. Things had happened in the meantime. A doctor had arrived in an automobile and after some gentle soundings and poundings of ’Becca’s anatomy to locate the undigested fruit that swamped her, had carried her off to the hospital, declaring that her after treatment was important.

The after treatment she was receiving now was in the shape of a big waxen queen doll from Olive, a creature that could mechanically call upon its royal parents by the titles of “Papa” and “Mamma,” as its little human owner couldn’t.

“It seemed too bad that she shouldn’t have some present, seeing that we couldn’t dress her up to-day—or for many days to come,” remarked Olive Deering, looking across at Jessica who was holding the dumb child’s stubby little fingers. “I wish we knew the name of the Boy Scout who helped you to save her!”

“’Twas I who helped him; he worked over her until he brought her to. He was an Eagle Scout, too, the highest rank among the Scouts.”

“Think of it!”

“All those little colored designs embroidered on his sleeve were his twenty-one merit badges.”

Silence for a few minutes while ’Becca’s right hand fondled the doll.

“Glory!” In a low and thrilling voice Olive broke the stillness of the ward where most of the children slept, calling the other girl by the pet name of her childhood. “Glory! the ladder has dipped once for all toward the Sugarloaf; no, I don’t mean that; I mean that the Sugarloaf and Camp Morning-Glory and camping out with the girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire are all on top for me—and for Sybil, too, if I can make her; the hotel is nowhere!”

“Do you really mean it, that you want to become a Camp Fire Girl at last?”

“I want to do something worth while!” Olive’s lip quivered; she spoke passionately. “I want to do something with—with spice in it! I felt that, to-day, when I saw you working to bring ’Becca round—you and that boy.... I want to dance the Leaf Dance and, maybe, to inflict my rhymes on other girls without their laughing at me,” emotion dwindling down to laughter.

“But perhaps your father will wish you to go to that hotel, Sybil and you, with Cousin Anne.”

“Father, no! He approves of the Camp Fire movement; I’ve heard him say so. He thinks with Captain Andy”—laughingly—“that it’s a pretty good incubator for the growth of new wing-feathers—unusual power to do things.”

“Or power to do unusual things, eh?”

“Either will answer! I’m sure Cousin Anne would be delighted to get off on her own hook this summer, without any of us girls. And ’twill be lots better for Sybil than going to an hotel and lording it over half-a-dozen boys, whose parents are staying there, and who wait on her all the time—fight over her, maybe, as two of them did, last year—because they think she’s fairy-like and pretty.” There was a look of her beautiful mother in Olive’s eyes now.

“As for me, I’ve quite made up my mind; I’m not going to lose my hoot through not using it, like that poor old straw-eyed owl,” wound up the Camp Fire recruit. “I don’t care”—rising to a dramatic outburst—“if there should be a dozen tingling Penelopes and half-a-dozen witchetty nieces of Captain Andy’s, each with a pig for a pupil, in the camp, I’ll—what is it you say—I’ll ‘cleave to my Camp Fire Sisters whenever, wherever I find them!’”

Half laughing, half crying, she stretched her hand across the cot. Jessica grasped it. The pledge of sisterhood was made and ratified upon the heart of a dumb child.

CHAPTER VII

MARY-JANE PEG

Mary-Jane Peg was munching a green apple. Green apples had never swamped her. To her they were the prize and the poetry of existence.

Other things were well enough in their way, such as a daily mess that had as many flavors in it as there were airs in a musical medley or scents in a pot-pourri. A succulent cabbage or young turnip weren’t bad. Indeed, so far as satisfying hunger went, all was grist that came to the mill of her astounding digestion, roots, leaves, land-turtle’s eggs found among potato rows, anything, everything went, from a lately hatched chicken killed by herself to an old shoe of her owner’s.

But the real greens of life, that which lent to it a bitter-sweet rapture, were the hard windfall apples of July, shaken by the orchard breeze from a tree whose fruit would not ripen until fall; she preferred them even to a red astrachan, with the early bloom of maturity upon its cheek.

“Ungh! Ung-gh!” muttered Mary-Jane, closing her white eyelashes until her little grey-green eye almost vanished into her head over which two quivering upright ears stood sentinel. “Ungh! Ungh!” That apple tasted uncommonly good. She nodded over it like a hungry child over his bread and milk when it exactly hits his taste. As its tart juices slid down her capacious throat she said a grunting grace to the universe and started upon a rooting search for another.

“Oh! Mary-Jane Peg, how—how everlastingly happy you are! You haven’t a thing to worry you!”

As the envious human voice fell upon Mary-Jane’s now slanting ears, coming from the edge of a shabby, swaying hammock slung between two orchard trees, the muncher of green apples raised her head and, happening at that moment to be in the vicinity of that hammock, rubbed her white-haired side against a pair of small muslin knees drooping over its edge. “Ungh! Ungh!” she vouchsafed in a snort of semi-intelligent sympathy. “Ungh! Un-ngh!” her conversation, except in some squealing emergency, being monotonously limited to this monosyllable.

“Oh, Mary-Jane! Oh, Mary-Jane Peg, I don’t want to die—to die before you do—I don’t want to die young!”

It was a frankly doomed cry now; had there been an executioner in waiting behind an orchard tree, had Mary-Jane Peg been the sheriff whose business it was to hurry a victim off to an untimely end, the voice could not have carried more pathetic conviction.

“Die! Lord ha’ mercy! who’s talking about dying?—not you, Kitty? You talking about ‘stepping out’ at the advanced age of fourteen!” came a blusterous voice, suddenly breezing-up among the apple and cherry trees.

The doomed one, the occupant of the hammock and owner of the muslin knees, dropped, startled, to her feet and whisked around like a shaken leaf, the orchard zephyr fluttering the hem of her green muslin frock, lengthened to suit her years, but falling shrunkenly short in that respect.

“You don’t want to die, eh?” challenged the breezy voice again in an orchard gust. “You don’t want to die before that pampered pig that’s hazaracking round here, surfeiting herself with windfall apples. Well! she’s sure to lie down an’ grunt her last, some time, if she don’t make tasty bacon first, but where’s the fun of sitting in a hammock, talking to her about it? That’s what I’d like to know!”

“She’ll never make bacon—although she may after I’m gone!” This last was a plaintive after-clap of thought; the wearer of the muslin dress of shrunken green looked up with melting defiance into the face which upon a far-away city playground had reminded a Camp Fire Girl of “sheltering flame.”

It flamed protectively now all over the massive features as its narrowed blue eyes from under their heavy, weather-beaten eyelids dropped a glance half of amusement, half of deep concern, that floated downward quite a distance like the petal of a flower to alight on the brown head of the little four-feet-seven figure in green.

Yes, it was scarcely half an inch taller, that figure, than the buoyant little form of Betty Ayres, whose Camp Fire name was Psuti, the Holly, chosen from a book of symbols because the holly is “gayest when other trees are bare.”

There was a sort of grimness rather than gaiety about this other small girlish figure palpitating under the orchard trees as if at its core there was a spike rather than an elastic spring, that steely spike being fairly well covered up by the rounded, childish form, whose curves were not quite as well-filled out as they ought to be, the curly brown hair and dimpling face—quite a shade paler than nature intended—and the mischievous brown eyes, more liquid than Sally’s, now amber pools of sunlight in which a tiny brown trout seemed perversely to leap, refusing to be caught.

Captain Andy, looking down upon the brown head, made up his mind that, now or never, he would catch that little perverse troutlet which had been dodging him and everybody else for some months and extract the spiky hook about which it played in Kitty’s being; in other words, that he would get at the grim core of secret fear, or whatever it might be, which, as he put it to himself, seemed to be eating the very heart out of the child.

“Come! let’s sit down an’ talk a while; I’m just full to the hatches with things I want to tell you, Kitty,” he said. “That hammock looks too skittish to bear my weight; let’s put for the seat under the cherry-tree there, the tree that you an’ I did some grafting on last spring,” indicating a bandaged trunk on which a surgical operation had been performed. “Neat piece of vegetable surgery it was, too, grafting a slip from a tree bearing fine ox-heart cherries on to one bearing mighty poor bleeding-hearts, eh?” muttered the captain as he caught the hand of his little grandniece, Kitty Sill. “Sounds some like a parable that!” under his breath. “Maybe there’s the same ticklish job ahead o’ me, now, to graft something on to this little bleeding heart,” glancing askance at Kitty’s face with its set lips in contrast to the fluctuating dimples. “But, first, to find out why it bleeds—and there I’ve got my work before me!... Let’s see, what d’ye call that crunching pig that you swap secrets with, here, secrets you won’t tell your mother?” he asked aloud.

“Mary-Jane Peg.” Kitty linked the two first names, emphasizing the last like a surname. “She won a prize at a fair; she’s a pedigreed pig.”

“Ungh! Ungh!” corroborated Mary-Jane, boastfully, rubbing herself against the captain’s legs as he seated himself with his grandniece.

“Avast there!” boomed Captain Andy. “I haven’t got any prizes, nor yarns to swap with you, either,” applying the toe of his boot to the pink-shot side of the pedigreed pig. “Don’t you—don’t you come hazaracking around me!”

Mary-Jane understood that raging word beginning with “h” as little as Kitty Sill did, and Kitty had never found it in a school dictionary yet, but, somehow, it always cowed her as it did the corkscrew-tailed pig; Mary-Jane made off and Kitty felt constrained to answer something when her great-uncle baldly put the question to her: “Now then, chicken, out with it; what did you mean by talking ’bout dying—dying young, too, as if you meant it?”

But the trout was not caught yet, nor the spiky hook extracted: Kitty opened her mouth, indeed, but this is what she coolly said, with a little, sly smile of mischief, kicking at a leg of the orchard bench with the heel of her swinging slipper:

“Well, I don’t know but what it would be better to die young than have the things that preacher said come true!” with nonchalant indifference.

“What did he say? Where did you hear him?”

“Two years ago at Ma’am Barrows’s house; he had a meeting Sunday afternoon; she said he was a revival preacher,”—the foot swinging vehemently—“but most o’ the folks let on that they considered him a ‘survival,’ or something like that.”

“What did he preach about?”

“Oh! I don’t take any stock in it now; I did then; he talked a whole lot about wrath an’ anger comin’ in pailfuls on the earth—that’s what I understood him to say—and ’bout folks calling on the rocks to fall on them an’ hide ’em, so’s the hot wrath couldn’t strike.”

“And what did you do, little Kitty?” Captain Andy was much interested, although he knew he had not got at the spiky secret yet.

“Me!” Kitty raised her level brown eyebrows; the dimples flashed. “Me! Why, I just came home, all tuckered out, and went down to the bottom of the orchard there and picked out that big, tall rock near the stream that has a bed of soft earth under it, an’ I thought that, if worst came to worst, I’d lie down and call on that rock to fall, for ’twas the earth that would, really, tumble on to me—an’ that wouldn’t hurt very much!”

If only the preacher could have seen Kitty’s outwitting expression, her swinging shoe!

Her granduncle stared at her a minute. Then the orchard rang with his gusty laugh.

“Great Kingdom! if you ain’t the sly-boots,” he blankly ejaculated. “If you haven’t an eye to business, picking out a rock that’s bedded in good soft earth so’s the earth might smother, but not mangle you, cheating the anger of the Almighty!”

But Captain Andy’s laughter was a brief puff. It died summarily. He rose and paced the orchard, thrusting Mary-Jane out of the way with his meditative foot, his figure looming massively against the background of fruit-trees.

Just as suddenly he sat down again and touched Kitty’s hand with a horny forefinger, his face at this moment a sheltering flame, indeed, fed by an inner fire.

“Kitty child! listen to me,” he said. “You ain’t so ready to tell me things, but I’m going to tell you something that I never told yet to a soul outside my wife—your gran’aunt, Kitty—who died more’n five years ago. Kitty, I’ve led a rough an’ racking life, take it all together, with maybe more storm than shine in it—I’ve gone winter-fishing for years to the far-away ocean fishing-grounds an’ that’s about the hardest life a man can lead—an’ he’s sure to ask at times what’s the meaning of it all. Kitty, I don’t set up to know the meaning. But two or three times in my life, once when I was a boy of your age, again when I was a tossed seaman standing to the wheel o’ my vessel at twilight, something has come to me like a flash an’ I’ve seemed to see surer than sunlight the Power behind everything an’—and it was the ‘Big Good Thing,’ as somebody calls it, Fatherhood an’ Truth an’ Understanding—and it isn’t dropping rocks on anybody. Pretty often we roll ’em on to ourselves, though, or get on the rocks, whichever way you like to put it, by taking false bearings, by our mistakes and the like. Now, little girl, don’t you go and make the big mistake of shutting up tighter’n a clam on any secret that’s troubling you—sharing it only with a pig!

“Bless your heart!” went on the moved captain after an interval during which tears had begun to steal down his grandniece’s cheeks. “Why, bless your heart, dearie, Death and I ain’t strangers. I’ve seen him and his shadow often enough to know him pretty well, an’ two-thirds of the time I’ve ousted him, too, when he was just setting up a claim.” Something superb stirred in the speaker’s tones at memory of the lives he had saved. “An’, maybe, if he was casting an eye on you at all—else why should you talk about ‘dying young’—I might be able to drive him off again.”

“It—’twas what Aunt Hannah said,” began Kitty weakly, no longer perverse. “She said it to Aunt Kate, sitting on this very seat under the cherry-tree, only last spring. I”—with a stifled sob—“was playing ’round with Mary-Jane and my little topknot duck; she thought I didn’t hear.”

“Great Neptune, I’d as lief be with Davy Jones as to live with that woman’s scarecrow tongue; she’s always ridden by a nightmare or a daymare or something.” Captain Andy sprang to his feet again with nautical restlessness, but he did not pace the orchard; he stood glaring down in a half-savage, half-tender way on Kitty.

“What did she say—what scare was she passing on to somebody then? Now, out with it—no bushwhacking—no beatin’ about the bush—you can’t get by me, you know!”

Kitty rubbed the back of a freckled little hand against her right eye and her right dimple blossomed forth; already she was feeling better, deriving a comfort which neither Mary-Jane nor the topknot duck nor any other member of her animal kingdom could impart; if this heroic granduncle of hers would rather depart this life with Davy Jones (the fabulous gentleman who summons sailors when death claims them at last) than to live with the tongue and the scares of Mrs. Hannah Beals, her aunt by marriage, then, perhaps, there wasn’t much in the spiky scare which the said Aunt Hannah had planted in her heart three months earlier.

“She said I was the livin’ image of my Aunt Lottie, father’s sister, who died when she was less than seventeen,” returned Kitty sedately. “Then Aunt Kate said she thought I looked a little peaked and thin—that I ought to go round more with girls of my own age.”

“So you ought! An’ that’s what I’m going to talk to you about presently,” put in the listener. “Well! an’ did Aunt Hannah drive the nightmare then?” laughingly.

“She said that she didn’t see as ’twould do much good for me to go round more with girls an’ boys, go to their parties an’ such-like, because I was so like my Aunt Lottie in looks and ways that it seemed borne in on her—that’s what she said—that I’d start a cough one o’ these fine days, not far off, and go as Aunt Lottie did; an’ that I was looking more like it every day, getting thinner”—sniff—Kitty wiped away a tear.

“Gosh! I wish I had the keelhauling of that woman; she’d go down under a vessel’s keel an’ she’d never come up again! Now, Kitty child, listen to me!” Captain Andy touched the child’s shoulder. “And take it from me as straight that you’re like your Aunt Lottie”—Kitty sniffed forlornly again—“and you’re not like her; she was a grain taller an’ a bit narrower in the chest than you are,” critically eyeing the small green figure in the shrunken muslin dress. “But, even with that handicap, she wouldn’t have faded away before she was seventeen—not a bit of it—if she’d got it fast in her head, like those Camp Fire Girls who are in one of my camps over on the Sugarloaf sand-dunes, that to ‘Hold on to Health’ comes pretty near being the strongest point in the law of life.

“She was ambitious about her studies; she had her heart set on going to college; it was, with her, come home from high school, peck at her dinner, then out into this orchard, not to swap gossip with a pig an’ a crested duck, but to sit in a hammock with a study-book, or if ’twas winter, she’d be half the afternoon poring over that book or another, in her own little bedroom, maybe, and come down, weazened an’ blue-nosed”—sadly—“to peck like a bird at her supper. I told her mother that Lottie was going ahead on that tack under more sail than she could carry. ‘Take her out o’ school,’ I said; ‘turn her loose in the woods. I’ll teach her to swim an’ dive until she’s as much at home in the water as a young harbor-seal and has the appetite of a shark!’ ... Land! there’s a fine bathing-beach half-a-mile from this orchard, but she couldn’t swim any farther than that pedigreed pig there, ’bout the only animal that can’t hold its own in the water. Can you? Can you swim farther than Mary-Jane Peg?” He frowned fiercely on Kitty.

“Ye-es—with water-wings,” she faltered, “I can swim ten yards.”

“‘Ten yards! Water-wings!’ Gumph! An’ you of my breed! That’s the way with about half the boys an’ girls on this cape, of sea-faring stock, too! Can’t swim a stroke until some summer visitor who spends nine-tenths o’ the year away from the ocean takes pity on ’em and teaches ’em—then they’ll hand his name down to their children as a water-god who had Neptune ‘skun a mile.’” Honk! Captain Andy’s angry laughter scaled the bandaged tree.

“But to come back to Lottie!” He reseated himself mournfully. “Well, p’raps her mother would have hearkened to my advice, but the child herself was set against it, an’ nobody said her nay. She graduated from high school at sixteen with tall honors—an’ a face the color of sea-foam. The following winter she overworked at college, studied about every minute when she wasn’t waiting on table to win her way through, broke down, came home with a cough that turned to a galloping consumption or something o’ the sort—they buried her in the spring.”

Kitty drew a long sob-like breath.

“Well now, you ha’n’t got the over-study fever, but you’ve anchored in this orchard too long, with a pig an’ a duck for crew, fishing up scares. It’s ‘Up anchor!’ now; you’re going to be ready for me to-morrow when I come for you in my power-boat—I’ve been talking to your mother about it already—an’ you’ll spend a couple o’ weeks, at any rate, in one or other of those camps on the white Sugarloaf Peninsula, either among the Camp Fire Girls or sleeping in my big tent if you prefer it. You’ll do things ’long with other girls (that Mary-Jane she’s a mighty intelligent pig, but a silent partner), you’ll slide down sand-hills, watch the seals, learn to swim, breast-stroke, crawl-stroke——”

“I won’t do it!” That little brown trout, a minnow of perversity, leaped again in the amber pool of Kitty’s eyes.

But the flying-dolphin-like gleam in Captain Andy’s swallowed it up at a gulp.

“Oh, tut, tut! Avast there! What I say goes, this trip!” The granduncle stamped his foot on the orchard buttercups just as he had many a time stamped it at Death upon a reeking deck which the seas were pounding like an earthquake, bidding that grim spectre begone; so he was bent on driving off his shadow now.

“They—they’d only laugh at me, those Camp Fire Girls; they wear short skirts or bloomers an’ middy blouses—I’ve seen a tribe of them before—an’ they dress up grandly at ceremonial meetings; I have only frocks like these; an’ they’d laugh at me for chumming with a pig an’ a duck an’ some hens.”

“I’ll warrant they wouldn’t. They’d give you a colored honor-bead, instead, to string on a leather thong round your neck—that is if you joined them—for knowing so much about a farmyard. As for the Camp Fire duds, I’ll see that you have ’em when you need ’em. Bless your heart, little Kitty, you won’t know yourself in green bloomers—any more’n a vessel seems to know herself when she gets her first suit o’ sails on and feels herself moving; all your fears’ll run to hide an’ laugh at you out o’ the knees of those bloomers. An’ you’ll laugh back at the fears once you join the Morning-Glory Camp Fire.”

“Is that what they call it?” A dawn-pink stole into Kitty’s cheeks.

“Sure. And they call the biggest o’ my camps that they roost in at night, twelve of ’em—not all the tribe could come—Camp Morning-Glory. Sounds slick, doesn’t it? Sounds as if they had hit the sun’s trail, doesn’t it? And, by gracious! they have. They’re a lighthearted tribe, always ‘on deck,’ always alert an’ doing something, swimming or rowing, dressing up in Indian toggery, singing, sliding, cooking—middling good cookery, too—I’ve tasted it—laundering their own blouses, even one or two rich girls among ’em, whose father could charter a laundry for the whole outfit an’ not miss it—‘glorifying work,’ they call it!”

“But—I don’t want to go.” Perversity’s last stand!

“Ah, but hearken a minute; do you know what I’m going to do when I get back to the Sugarloaf this afternoon? I’m going to prowl about the white sand-dunes until I find a nice hard chunk o’ birch-wood—there’s all sorts o’ driftage among those dunes, even to planks and great big logs washed down from Maine lumber camps an’ trundled ashore there—what d’you suppose I want that birch-chunk for?”

Kitty’s eyes widened.

“I’m going to make a top of it—a guessing-top, to spin on a flat stone—about a foot long that top’s to be, nine inches in circumference near the point, thirty at the head-end; ’twill be painted with symbols an’ it’s called by an Indian name ‘Kullibígan.’ It’s a magic top; it tells fortunes.”

“Non-sense!”

“You wait and see! ’Twas the Morning-Glory who thought of that game; she’s the prettiest little dancer and her name is Jessica, the sort of girl”—Captain Andy looked at some old-farm buildings beyond the orchard and drew his comparison, now, from the farm, not the foam—“the sort of girl who if she was run through a milk separator would come out all cream! From what I gather she’s pretty much alone in the world, too, has her own way to make; that don’t down her; she’s a Morning-Glory in spite of it—that’s her Camp Fire name.”

“An’ you’ll laugh back at the fears, once you join the Morning-Glory Camp Fire.”

“How did she learn about the Indian top?”

“Why! she learned of it from a professor who watched the Indian maidens play the Kullibígan spinner game in their own camps or on their reservations. They ask it a question about who’s going to marry first or that sort of thing, sitting round in a scattered ring, and the one toward whom the big painted top falls after it has spun itself dizzy, why, it has pitched on her for the answer to the question.”

“Something like playing ‘This year, next year, some time, never,’ with a holly leaf!”

“Hum-m! You see you might ask that Kullibígan guessing-top which of you were going to die young—you sitting round among the Camp Fire Girls—an’ it mightn’t topple your way at all.”

The Doomed One crowed triumphantly; Kullibígan had sent the orchard spectre that stalked her scampering, when Mary-Jane Peg had failed to root him out.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SUGARLOAF

“It’s a long way to shore now,

It’s a long way to go!”

So sang a laughing voice to the blossoming wave that was barely two inches below the singer’s lips!

So full of frolic was that voice chanting amid the foam, as the white-flowering waves broke about a girl-swimmer, that it would be hard for an onlooker to believe that those tidal waves, themselves, were not sentient sharers of her joy.

“It’s a long way to shore now,

It’s a long way to go,

It’s a long way to shore now,

To the dearest girls I know!

Good-by, Morning-Glory!

Farewell, Betty, fair!

It’s a long—long—way to yonder shore now,

But my heart’s right there!”

improvised Sally again, breasting a foam-hill through the watery transparency of which her bare arms laughed—no other word could so well express their exuberant motions—while her shoulders in the blue bathing-suit, with a flame-colored emblem on the breast, held a mimic boxing-match with the waves and her head in its red silk turban nodded saucily to her “heart”—or its reflection—upon “yonder shore,” some sixty yards away.

“She swims like a fish, that Sesooā one—that’s her Camp Fire name,” commented Captain Andy as he wended his way along a white beach, bordered on one side by the incoming surge of a tidal river, on the other by a snowy rampart of sand-hills plumed with vegetation.

His remark was directed to a shrinking little figure by his side in a “lengthened” muslin dress, brown-dotted, now, and a wide leghorn hat, too childish for her years, with broad streamers of laundered white ribbon hanging down her back.

“They’re strong on names, those Camp Fire Girls,” remarked the florid seaman, encouragingly making conversation, as the small footsteps beside him flagged. “I’m blessed if they didn’t go to work an’ hunt up one—an Indian name with a meaning—for me. It had only twenty-two letters to it.”

“What did it mean?” questioned Kitty, shyly, as her granduncle paused to watch the frolicking figure amid the foam-hills with the flaming symbol of crossed logs upon her breast—signifying that among the Camp Fire Girls she held the rank of Wood Gatherer—and other girlish figures bathing, diving or swimming near her.

“Mean! It was taken from the Ojibway language and it meant something like ‘Wind-in-the-trees-Man!’ They said my voice, or my roar, was like that. But I up an’ said that the name was too long—a comber—knocked me over like a big wave—d’ye understand? And that I objected to being called a ‘Big Wind,’ anyhow! Then they handed me out another just for fun, to keep up the atmosphere of the camp, as they said.”

“And what’s that one?” asked Kitty Sill, her brown eyes feasting themselves upon the water-pommeled figures of girls about her own age.

“Let’s see now! Can I remember it? Something like Men-o-ki-gá-bo; yes, I guess that’s it!”

“An’ what on earth does that mean?”

“‘Standing Tall!’ Ain’t that a bully name?” The mariner reared his massive bulk with a highly amused twinkle in his eye which surveyed the bathers, too. “Fancy me play-acting with Indian names at my age, when I’m cruising toward seventy! But it pleases them an’ don’t hurt me. The Morning-Glory chose the latter name, the girl I was speaking to you about yesterday. There she goes, diving nigh on fifteen feet off that high rock; she dives as well as dances like a foam-chicken! You stick to her like a limpet, little Kitty, if you’re shy-like among the strange girls, and I’ll warrant you’ll soon feel at home! But I guess you will with any of them; they’re a kind-hearted tribe.”

“Tell me some more of their dressing-up names!” Kitty shook her laundered ribbons. The little brown troutlet leaped in the sunlight in her blinking eyes, but it was an eager, not a perverse, minnow now; greedy for the bait of a new interest.

“Oh, tooraloo! Ask me an easy one. Well, I guess I can make a hit at the name of that tall girl that’s toeing the water there on the edge of the beach, making up her mind to go in; I wrote her Camp Fire name down because I considered it the best of the bunch.” Captain Andy took a penciled slip from his vest pocket. “U-l-i-d-a-h-á-s-u!” he spelled out slowly. “That’s a Penobscot Indian word cut down from one of fifteen letters and it means ‘Peace’; she wants to be a peacemaker, that girl, to do her bit now an’ when she grows up toward bringing peace everywhere. She has a dove in her head-band.”

“Who’s the girl with the red cheeks—an’——?”

“And the scream like a curlew! Can’t tell you her dressing-up name, Kitty. But her ordinary one is Penelope, with a kind of extraordinary surname: Tingle, an’ gee! she is one big tingle, was about as mild-mannered as a hurricane when she came here first, but she’s simmering down a little, by degrees. See that dark-haired girl who’s sitting on the steps of the biggest camp building—Camp Morning-Glory they call it?” The captain wheeled shoreward and looked toward a scattered trio of new camps, lightly built frame houses, in a curve of the white crescent beach.

“The one who has just come out of the water and taken the handkerchief off her head?” Kitty inquired.

“Yes, she’s one of the rich girls I spoke of. The first time I saw her she talked some frilly stuff about going to an hotel, she and her sister, an’ dancing all summer—something like that—now she foots it an’ sings with the rest of the girls and cooks an’ launders, and learns how to run a motor-boat and pull a good oar, too, an’ thinks it all a lark. Her father has millions, I guess, and wears a mite o’ pink ribbon on his coat that makes him look like a foreign di-plo-mat—I heard him speechify after a public dinner when I was in the city of Clevedon about three weeks ago.”

“What’s that for?” inquired Kitty’s laundered ribbons waving in the sea-breeze and taking the words from her lips.

“The scrap o’ ribbon! Why! to show that his ancestors did truly come over here on the Mayflower—as yours an’ mine did, Kitty, for the matter o’ that, on a bunchy old hooker called the Angel Gabriel. That girl’s name is Olive Deering; her mother was a beautiful Southerner, so I understand, an’ the girl herself is, as a seaman would say, A. I. in p’int of looks from her keel to her truck-head!” Captain Andy chuckled.

A slow swish of wings in the air! A great bird rising majestically from the water’s edge where it had been feeding on fish at a point where the tidal ripples broke gently upon the white sands that gleamed through them like milk in a crystal vase.

Kitty turned eagerly to watch its flight toward the dunes, the white expanse of sand-hills, some of which were sand-snows right to the top that rose to two hundred feet, or thereabouts, above sea level; others shone with the faint pink of delicate flesh owing to the shadow cast by the vegetation, the sparse grass that stood up like the scanty hair on a baby’s head.

The deep hollows between the peaks were pink and purple with the riotous, blossoming beach-pea or emerald with low trees and shrubs, basswood, bitter-sweet, bayberry and barberry.

One sand-valley held a crystal basin left by the tide where a score of sandpipers were bathing.

Over all sailed the magnificent bird—great wings heavily flapping—like a grey slate against the sky, in length measuring about four feet from the tip of its six-inch beak to the end-feather of its insignificant tail, its little yellow eye slanting down sidelong on Kitty, which, of course, she could not see, its long neck gracefully stretched.

“Know what bird that is?” asked her granduncle.

“Some sort of crane.” So the fluttering ribbon again made answer, playing with her reply.

“‘Crane!’ Balderdash! It’s a great Blue Heron. See ’em pretty often round here! There were three of ’em standing in a row upon this beach at the very time that I landed my first boat-load of Camp Fire Girls here—looked just as if the birds were lined up on deck for a welcome.”

“How funny!” cried Kitty, showing her dimples.

“Say! but it tickled the girls. The birds flew off, but slowly; they seem to know the law protects ’em now. One of the girls, the very one we were talking about, got so excited that she came near upsetting the rowboat I was landing them in. She cried out that, when she was initiated, she was going to take the Blue Heron for her Camp Fire name because it had such a splendid spread o’ wings. I shouldn’t wonder if she first thought of becoming a Camp Fire Girl through seeing an old owl, with a goose’s head on his shoulders, that could neither fly nor hoot, had lost his natural powers through not using them.”

“Do the other girls call her the Blue Heron?”

“They call her by the Indian word for it. You come along over now and we’ll ask her what that is!” Captain Andy began a strategic move forward in the direction of Camp Morning-Glory.

Kitty began a crab-like backward one.

“No-o! I don’t know any girls like her and her sister (isn’t that the sister sitting near her on the sands?)—they’re too grand for me, eh?” Her dimples fluctuated tentatively.

“Grand! Fiddlestick! Is it of the money or the Mayflower emblem you’re thinking, child? Pshaw, Kittykins”—the captain let out his deep, droll laugh—“I guess you can come near matching that last any day, with your old chimney built for five smokes! I’ve read the builder’s contract myself, dated 1718, for that big T-shaped chimney, to be ‘built of brick, for five smokes!’ And by the red, brick breast of that old chimney your fathers an’ your fathers’ fathers, ever since, have tended the fire o’ love to God and man, that the Camp Fire Girls aim to tend. They’re patriotic, those girls; they get honor-beads, so they tell me, for looking up their gran’parents an’ great-gran’parents—and their occupations; all that went to the building up of this great country; they’ll welcome you and your five smokes with open arms.”

It was a very smoky background for a pathetically shy little figure as Kitty advanced over the white sands toward the triple steps of the largest of the wooden camps, open at one side to the airs of heaven. But it needed no backing of ancestral smokes, that shrinking figure in the childish, flapping hat and dotted muslin.

For Olive, still in her wet bathing-suit, with her dark hair hanging, loose and long, about her, saw the little stranger coming.

The childish dress, rustic and old-fashioned, but dainty and demure, the pretty dimples, each nesting a freckle, the liquid, amber-brown eyes in which that tiny flashing minnow seemed to come and go with shy feeling—not sure of its owner’s reception—all these simply reached out and took Olive by the heart, bringing her to her feet in a jump, the water swishing in her bathing shoes.

“Why! it’s Kitty,” she cried. “Captain Andy’s Kitty! Oh, Kitty, we’re just so glad to see you! We were dying for you to come!”

No distant or smoky welcome this! Kitty flirted her wide, starched skirts as might a pleased bird its tail. The happy water rose to her eyes. She cast one far-away mental glance to Mary-Jane Peg and the orchard with its bandaged trees as she felt Olive’s wet arm about her shoulders.

“Oh! I must kiss you,” said Olive Deering, “although it’s too bad to wet you all up, Kitty. We’ve been watching for you all day, ever since Captain Andy told us he was going to fetch you here in his motor-boat. Captain Andy’s so good to us,” breathing briny gratitude; “he’s always on watch to see that we don’t go too far out when bathing, those of us who can’t swim very well yet.”

“Oh! you’re coming on—you’re coming on!” encouraged the mariner, whose camp name was Menokigábo.

“And he has taught us a lot about rowing and steering, a little about sailing, too!”

“Can’t do much with a sailboat here; it’s too near the mouth of the river. Tide’s too tricky,” remarked the captain. “That’s the bar where those curly breakers are, Kitty,” dropping his hand on his niece’s arm and whirling her round to face a white line of breakers about a mile down-river; beyond which flared the blue breadth of the comparatively open sea. “That’s the sand-bar where river an’ bay meet. Pretty rough water there, breaking on the Neck—the sandy neck of those other sand-dunes on the opposite side of the river! Mustn’t get carried down there in a boat, any of you girls! Quicksands, too! The Neck is studdled with ’em.”

“What does ‘studdled’ mean?” Olive’s briny lips blew the words like a pickled kiss into Kitty’s ear.

“I don’t know. Search—me!” quiveringly.

“I wonder the Boy Scouts don’t get caught among the wicked quicksands, seeing that they’re camping somewhere among those other dunes.” It was Sybil Deering who spoke. Sybil was not yet a Camp Fire Girl, although her elder sister who was to spend two months in camp had already been initiated as a Wood Gatherer; Sybil felt that the occasional presence of boys would add sauce to this crystalline Sugarloaf on which she found herself.

She had not been in bathing and she yawned in the hot sun as she sent her gaze sweeping over as much of that white Sugarloaf Peninsula as she could see, a hundred acres of sand-dunes taking their name from the highest peak, a pillar-like loaf of sand that sparkled like sugar-frosting in the hot sun.

“Oh, they know how to steer clear o’ the quicksands, I guess,” answered Captain Andy, answering on behalf of the Boy Scouts whose invisible camp was somewhere among the lesser sand-hills on the other side of the tidal river, here, nearly two miles across. “But quicksands’ll fool you,” he went on meditatively. “That’s why they’re so turrible dangerous; they look just like the firm sand, seem like it, too, when you plant one foot on them, but bring up the other, bend your weight on it an’ immediately you’ll hear the water rushing in under you and you’ll begin to sink—an’ it’s the one thing next to impossible under Heaven to drag you out!”

“How long does it take to—to sink out of sight?” asked Arline Champion—who had just come up out of the water rainbowed with brine—feeling awfully creepy.

“’Bout five minutes. Get caught in one o’ those sand-traps, nobody ever knows what becomes of you!”

There was a pervading, unanimous shudder, gathering up into it all the little minor shivers of the wet bathers.

“You’d better tell Jessica that,” volunteered little Betty Ayres from the edge of the dripping group. “She goes out in the rowboat, alone, the most; she might get swept down there—an’ stranded.”

“That reminds me, I saw the Morning-Glory, early to-day, doing a strange stunt; she was sitting under a rock with a sheet o’ something—dull glass it seemed like—on her knee, bending over it. I thought she was looking at herself in it an’ called to her, chaffing-like! She jumped up and ran away. She seemed kind o’ vexed at being caught.”

There was a general, wondering laugh, ousting the shudder, as one and another pair of girlish eyes sought the turbaned head of Morning-Glory, the foam-chicken, amid the waves.

Olive spoke first when the puzzled mirth subsided.

“Come up here, little Kitty,” she said. “Sit on the steps—I’m going to dress in a minute; I’m just sunning myself—and tell us what you used to do on the farm where you live and in the orchard. How did you amuse yourself?”

“Mostly I played with the ducks an’ hens—an’ with Mary-Jane Peg,” replied Kitty’s lips and fluttering ribbons gravely.

“Who is Mary-Jane Peg?”

“She’s a pig—a very nice pig.”

“He! He! He! Hi!... Ha! Isn’t she too green for anything—the greenest little hayseed, greenest little guy—naming a pig like that?”

No need to ask whence came the tingling titter! Penelope had come up out of the water, too, Penelope of the swinging gate who, in view of her home handicaps and her sisterly service to younger brothers, had been invited by the Guardian of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire to join its circle and camp out, here, with its members.

“He! He! Ha-a-a!” rattled on Penny and, suddenly, in the midst of her stampeding laughter became conscious of a chill, that her mirth and her remark, both, shot wild, skated like pebbles over a frozen surface, grated upon an icy silence.

The chill suddenly started a fever. Desperately she ran down the white beach to hide her burning cheeks in the water.

“I said she had the mild manners of a hurricane—a Caribbean Sea hurricane!” mumbled Captain Andy between puffs of laughter. “Her core is gusty, but it’s good. Well! I must be off to hunt up a chunk o’ birch wood or some other hard wood to whittle it into a big top—otherwise you can’t play that Kullibígan guessing-game to-night. An’ Kitty wants to ask a question of that fortune-telling top, eh, Kitty?” He dropped a wink upon the Doomed One, whose conviction of early death was melting away, like snow in May, into the filmy, sunlight haze that hung over the sand-peaks of the Sugarloaf. “No! you stay here along with the other girls an’ get acquainted. I’ll be back soon.”

But he was not thinking of his grandniece as he walked off to prowl among the dunes; he was philosophizing about girlhood in general. “Girls, even the best of ’em, are freakish. You can’t understand ’em,” he told his masculine old heart. “They cut queer capers, sometimes, just like a vessel! Now, what was the Morning-Glory one doing to-day, sitting an’ looking at herself in that pane o’ glass on her lap—an’ running off without a word as if I caught her, or came near catching her, in a crime? Her eyes looked red, too, when next I met her. And there’s nothing to cry over in her looks; she’s pretty as her name-flower. But”—soliloquizing further to a silvery birch-log, part of the driftwood scattered everywhere among the dunes, as he notched it with his pocket-knife, to test its suitability for a spinner or guessing-top—“but it’s hard for a girl like her to lose both parents before she’s seventeen, to have no regular home an’ no money, be dependent for a while on those who are no kin, as I believe’s the case!”

Meditating thus upon the invisible storm and stress that might beset even a girl’s life set Captain Andy crooning about the actual storms amid which his life had been spent as he bore the birch-log to his watchman’s tent upon the beach, to saw off a foot of it for a revolving top.

“If howling winds and roaring seas

Give proof of coming danger ...”

he sang, broke off and took up the song again on the farther side of a mumbled gap as he commenced his whittling:

“When perils gather round
All sense of danger’s drowned,
We despise it to a man!
We sing a little and laugh a little
And work a little an’ play a little
And fiddle a little an’ foot it a little
As bravely as we can!
As bravely as we can! Yaho-o!”

CHAPTER IX

WOOD GATHERERS AMONG THE DUNES

“Hullo! Maidens, have all the braves gone hunting?” Thus boomed Menokigábo, known before he entered upon this Sugarloaf life of glamor at the beck of a dozen Camp Fire Girls as Captain Andy and at the rooms of the Master Mariners’ Association as Captain Andrew Davis. “All the braves gone a-hunting, eh?”

“No braves around this camp except you, Capt’n Andy!” One or two of the answering voices sounded the least trifle disconsolate—or wistful.

So far as supplying the male element went, Captain Andy was massive, but not a mass!

His admiration, however, of the sunset picture upon the beach before him could hardly have been outdone by any male mass, juvenile or adult.

“My! but you Camp Fire Girls do make the world look ‘gallus,’” he burst forth in seaman’s phraseology.

“What does that mean?” Ten voices rose together in asking this question.

“Royal-looking.”

“Oh! goody! he says we look royal; we’re princesses, Indian princesses, for this evening.” Morning-Glory strutted along the flushed sands in all her fringed and beaded bravery of ceremonial attire, beaming like the purple and white morning-glory in her head-band as if she had never known a lonely moment.

“But where are the bows an’ arrows, maidens? Why! you haven’t even got a harpoon among you, in case a school of blackfish should come in,” bantered Menokigábo, named for his stature “Standing Tall,” named by the maidens, in jest, as they told him, so that he might fit in with the general atmosphere of their camp.

“We’ll bring the bows and arrows next time we come,” answered Gheezies, the Guardian of the Camp Fire tribe, with the yellow sun embroidered on her bosom, this being the meaning of her name and her own particular symbol as it was the general emblem of all Camp Fire tribes.

She was standing by a budding camp fire which had just begun to blossom in a nest of rocks upon the beach, eclipsed by the sun’s fading splendors.

Scattered around her were her maidens, all in ceremonial dress, with their long braids hanging, head-bands gleaming, moccasined feet spurning the sands in an evening ecstasy of dressing up. Daughters of the Sun! Children of Camp Morning-Glory! What wonder that the old sea-dog said they made the world look “royal.”

“Hullo! see, I’ve got the Kullibígan all ready.” He pointed to a foot-long top of spinning dimensions and silvery lustre in his hand. “’Tain’t painted yet, but I guess that won’t lessen the magic—’twill answer all your questions by an’ by just as well.”

“I’m going to paint it all over with symbols to-morrow,” burst forth Jessica, touching the carefully polished wood. “I’m going to paint the emblem of our Morning-Glory Camp Fire which is an ocean sunrise—the dawn coming up like a foam-chicken, as Captain Andy—I mean Menokigábo—says, and my own symbol, a morning-glory flower and all the symbols of my Camp Fire Sisters that I can crowd on to it.”

“Great guns! ’twill surely be ‘some top’ then,” ejaculated old “Standing Tall,” looming massive against the waning sunlight. “Why! Kitty.”

Some one had come sliding pell-mell down the nearest sand-peak and reaching him in a rush, flung her arms around him, or tried to. Well might he exclaim!

Kitty, not in Indian dress, although her hair hung in two chestnut braids down her back! But a Kitty in olive-green bloomers silvered with sand! Kitty in a middy blouse too large for her—her sleeves rolled up—with the brightest dancing eyes and a delicate pink flush burnishing the gold of the freckles on her cheeks!

“Don’t tell Mary-Jane Peg,” implored Kitty, quaintly, looking down at her bloomers; “she’d be shocked.”

“Oh, land!” The captain simply roared.

“Sybil lent me these—wasn’t it good of her?” The Doomed One thrust forward one bloomered leg, into whose bagginess her orchard scares had evidently run to hide and had lost themselves. “Sally lent me the blouse,” glancing at her companion, in ceremonial dress, who had slid down the sand-hill with her, and whose arms were full of fuel gathered among the dunes, dead, silvery limbs of juniper, with driftwood and wreckwood. “Oh, Uncle Andy, I’m having such a good time! I’ve made up my mind that I want to be a Camp Fire Girl; you can order the dress an’—an’ fixin’s for me any time you want to!” saucily.

“Good life! can I? You jumped to it pretty quickly, didn’t you?” as if he were addressing the dancing minnow in Kitty’s eyes.

“It’s not surprising that she should swallow the new bait so quickly,” he muttered in an aside to the Guardian of the Camp Fire whose tender eyes rested upon this new recruit’s transformed face. “There are no children in the two families living nearest to her father’s old-fashioned farmhouse with the gambrel roof and T-shaped chimney. And those that she went to school with she didn’t take to—though she ought to have been forced to do so—these girls have made her take to them; they’ve burned up her shyness, somehow.”

“Kitty is learning that ‘it is the discovery of ourselves outside ourselves which makes us glad,’” quoted Gheezies the gracious Guardian, with the little feathery rings of grey hair, light as thistle-fluff among her dark locks, playing about her pearly head-band. “She sees herself reflected in each one of these girls with whom she has come in contact under circumstances novel enough to open her eyes to the reflection and already she’s a new Kitty. Already she’s sharing the team spirit, the joy of doing things together!” looking down on the slender, withered arms of juniper which Kitty had been gathering, too, among the sand-hills and had flung down in her rush upon her great-uncle.

Not one frowning face left a mote on that shining mirror of girlhood in which Kitty saw her own heart, its natural aims and desires, not Penelope’s even; Penelope had been rather quiet ever since she hid her laugh, her graceless tongue and flaming cheeks in the water.

“I’m going up among the dunes to gather some more wood,” she announced now. “We haven’t nearly enough to make a good fire to cook our supper and have it burn on and on in a jolly Council Fire afterward,” looking at the wigwam-like heap of fuel already piled upon the sands.

“Lovely!” responded Olive, meaning the idea, not the setter-forth thereof, although Penelope looked a very different Pen from the gaudy tomboy of the gate; no human hurricane could be a hurricane in ceremonial dress; there was a poetry about the leather fringes, the soft hue of the brown khaki, the shimmering head-band and embroidered moccasins which chastened the commonness of Penny’s speech.

To-night her clothes did not “talk” to you afar off; they thrilled you with a sense of some romance recovered which the world had lost a while.

And no setting for them could have been more perfect than the white beach and sand-hills, gleaming like lesser Alps, of the Sugarloaf Peninsula, flushed pink by the sunset.

“Oh! isn’t it all too beautiful?” breathed Olive who had a chord in her heart that vibrated with a joy as of heaven to Nature’s beauty, as she linked her fringed arm through Penelope’s, feeling a twinge of regret for the silent rebuff which the latter’s rude tongue had brought upon her earlier in the day; this feeling it was which prompted Olive to be her wood-gathering companion now, in collecting juniper and driftage from among the burnished dunes.

She might have had a worse companion than Penelope, for the tingling Penny, though her junior, was much the better climber of the two, and it was toilsome work, ploughing up well-nigh perpendicular sand-peaks, sometimes, through a jungle of vegetation that snared one’s every step.

“Don’t get into that thatch-grass, Cask!” warned Penelope; “I did the other day and was bitten by a thatch-spider; it poisoned me something aw-ful!”

“Spiders! Thatch-spiders! Ugh-h.” Olive shuddered at the rank dull-green thatch of one sand-hill, whose ungainliness seemed to have something in common with Penelope’s speech. “You don’t pronounce my Camp Fire name properly,” she said after a minute during which she had given the spider-breeding thatch-grass a wide berth. “You call me ‘Cask’: the a ought to be longer and softer in Kask; that’s the Indian for Blue Heron, the Penobscot Indian.”

“I think it’s a star name, Cask,” murmured Penelope, giving the title exactly the same intonation as before. “And you’ve got your symbolic name nailed onto you all right, Olive, because you’ve already been initiated as a Wood Gatherer and taken rank among the Camp Fire Girls,” glancing at the fagot ring on Olive’s little finger. “I haven’t; I’m only on probation, although they don’t ‘stump’ from wearing the ceremonial dress and being called by the Indian name that I’ve chosen: Awatawéssu; that’s Penobscot, too.”

The poetry of the name which even Pen’s pronunciation could not mar was so at variance with Penelope’s slangy speech that the Blue Heron, poised on a white sand-peak, her fringed arms outspread in their loose sleeves, as if she were about to take wing through the joy-filled universe, had to laugh.

“Oh! Penny, you’re too funny,” she said. “Yours is really a star name,” dreamily, “for it means ‘a star,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yes, getting down to bed-rock, as the boys say, it means ‘A creature far above!’” Suddenly the younger girl’s mood changed. Her moccasined foot kicked the fine sand into the air as if she were starting it off on a rainbowed quest to find the Star, her namesake, along a climbing trail where she knew she would find it hard to follow. “A—Creature—Far—Above!” she repeated slowly. “I guess that’s what I need to be! Since—since I’ve taken that name”—scarcely above a whisper—“I feel, somehow, low-down, because I’m always ‘putting my foot in it’; I did this morning, laughing at that little orchard Kitty directly she got here. An’ I’m too slangy. Mother doesn’t hear me, you know, or she’d correct me.... And there’s so much to be done for the boys, where a girl has three brothers younger than herself, that it didn’t seem to matter how I spoke—or much what I wore—so long’s I could get things—done.”

A silvery star peeping out as the sun declined, peering down at the sand-hills, saw her namesake’s eyes full of sore tears.

Olive stared a minute. Then her arms went round Penelope.

“Oh! you dear,” she gasped. “Oh! you dear!” wetly, too.

They had come out to gather dead juniper; they found the living fire-wood, the magic fuel of deep sympathy, mutual girlish comprehension.

It doubled their joy in a minute or two. For Penelope’s pangs were evanescent. They danced in the snowy sand-valleys, gathering up the khaki skirts of their ceremonial dresses into puckered bags for their driftwood fagots—brine-whitened chunks, some of them easily splintered and rendered portable, which had been swept in by the garnering tide from many a distant shore—together with withered limbs of basswood and juniper, native to the dunes.

They tried vainly to drag along in their train a very ancient captive, a bleached, branching cedar-stump, driftwood, too, which gleamed like a white marble monument amid the sands that had alternately covered and uncovered it for many hundreds of years.

Olive scraped its surface with her Camp Fire Girl’s pocket-knife and was delighted that she could tell by the flesh-pink of the wood underneath that it was cedar; one of the first flights which Blue Heron had made about the camp into the fairy-land of unacquired knowledge was the learning from Captain Andy to tell one kind of wood from another, whether it was alive and growing or merely dead driftage.

“It makes one love trees all the more when you can tell how they differ in their wood as well as in their branches and leaves,” she murmured, now, as the girls wandered on, picking here a wild rose, there a lacy blossom of thoroughwort or of the everlasting white—blossoming spirit of these white dunes—which Olive stuck into her black braid of hair.

“Well, we’ve got about all the wood we want, now; don’t you think so?” suggested Penelope, at last. “And it’s time we got back to the beach and our camp fire; Sesooā and Mŭnkwŏn, Sally and Arline, will be cooking supper; they’re cooks to-day, you know; they’re going to toast bacon on twigs and Arline has made a blackberry shortcake with those blackberries that we found yesterday in the woods up the river.”

“Here’s hoping that ’twill taste better than my apple-shortcake, which Captain Andy said was ‘chunky’ when I took a piece over to his tent! But I’ll do better next time. See if I don’t!” laughed Blue Heron, dropping her fuel and flapping her winged sleeves as if for a new flight. “Oh! Pen, I simply can’t go back—yet,” she quavered; “not if they begin supper without us. I don’t believe we’ll ever have another evening—another sunset—quite so lovely as this. I want to climb that tall peak and see the view; I will, too, if I never taste another mouthful!”

They capered up the lower, easy slope of the hill, fringes waving, just in that mood when feet would wither if they didn’t dance and the heart must burst if it couldn’t worship.

“Oh! how near it brings one to—to Things—like the altar rails at Confirmation,” whispered Olive, half to herself, her gasping breath a shrine for panting feeling when, with slower steps, she had mastered the summit of this hundred-feet snow-peak and looked down upon lesser dunes, creamily piled, sown with sunset roses, upon a crystalline hollow like a mimic glacier where fairies skated and away at the sundown glories crowning the snow-drift dunes of the opposite shore beyond the tidal river’s blue.

There all heaven seemed let loose, the heaven that lives in color; the elder girl’s soul was steeped in it; with cords woven of every hue in the spectrum it linked each holy moment of her life and wove it into the present minute: again, across the gulf of a year, she felt the touch of consecrating hands upon her head, heard the prayer: “Defend, oh, Lord, this Thy child with Thy Heavenly grace...!”

It was no far-away Lord of grace and glory now; the sunset made a highway to His Presence.

“That she may daily increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more...!”

What better translation of that than the Camp Fire spirit: the quest of beauty, truth, service, health, happiness, love?

Olive’s lips quivered as, with a loving, expanding desire for human contact, she again put an arm around Penelope. Penelope nestled close to her. They clung together upon the white apex of that peak, the apex of girlish feeling, in such a moment as should ever prevent outward differences from separating them again.

Penelope stirred uneasily. “I’ve got the dune-fever,” she said. “You set me going, Olive! I just can’t go back to camp with our fagots until I climb that other peak, just beyond this one, to see how the sunset looks from there!”

“All right! Let’s!” responded Olive recklessly. “Our Guardian or Captain Andy will be coming out to look for us, though! Well! it won’t take very long. We really will go back then. Oh! wait for me, Pen!” as Penelope, scarlet of cheek, sturdy of foot, panting in breath, ploughed up that still farther peak, like a brown goat, her braids and fringes waving.

“Stay, Sweetheart, stay!

Stay, till I ketch thee!”

panted Olive, as she neared the top, making the sand-dunes ring with the merry hail of an old song.

“Hey ding a ding a ding!

This ketching is a pretty thing!”

“Is it, though?” sarcastically inquired a voice. “I don’t think it’s a ‘very pretty thing!’” in the sourest of masculine voices that ever planted a sting in a girlish paradise. “Oh, jiggaroo! I don’t think ‘ketching’s’ pretty: I’m caught—an’ I don’t like it!”

Both girls jumped. The grumbling shout came from a sandy shoulder of the peak on which they were standing, a peak whose shoulder-blade stood out, clad in dark, olive-green basswood. Was it a goblin voice?

Beneath one glossy shrub showed a yellow-brown mound—a huddled, abject mound—a shade lighter in hue than their own ceremonial dresses.

Under the waning gold of the sunset it looked jaundiced. Jaundiced, truly, yellow-green with despair, if tones suggest color, and surly—the surliest ever—was the renewed shout that came from it, flung up from the olive-green clump of basswood into the teeth of the girls, the lips that launched the grumble being hidden.

“Oh, guree!” so it sullenly ran. “If that isn’t like girls! If they must sing on a trail, why can’t they sing something sensible! ‘Ketching!’ ‘Sweetheart!’ Stuff to make a fellow sick—sicker’n he is already! Oh-h-h! Ouch!”

The despondent groan in which the complaint ended seemed to rock the very sand-hill to its shifty foundations.

CHAPTER X

THE ASTRONOMER

“It’s a Boy!” Both girls burst forth simultaneously, explosively, with the discovery. The explosion was followed by an inarticulate rumble made up of mirth, that was one part trepidation at this boy’s very singular behavior, and of the gratification which variety always brings in its train, for in three weeks and three days of camping they had not seen a boy, saving at long range.

One of Captain Andy’s wooden camps upon the Sugarloaf beach, flanking their own Camp Morning-Glory, was unoccupied. The other sheltered an elderly naturalist and his wife—young people there were none, outside of their own group.

“But what a fat boy!” Penelope’s gaze was measuring the padded breadth of the yellow-brown shoulders, hunched and bowed. “Ever see such a fat thing in your life?” The hills rang with her giggle, half-hysterical now, for the sun was departing, shadows creeping among the dunes; she was not absolutely sure that this bloated yellowish back, persistently toward her, was human.

Was it a swollen spectre of the Sugarloaf?

And while the girls stood clinging to each other in nervous indecision they became definitely conscious of a distant, organ-like volume of sound coming from no point in sight; they had heard it right along, but, knowing whence it boomed, paid no attention to it. It was the roar of the breakers at high tide, breaking upon the sand-bar, half a mile off, where the tidal river met the open bay, or sea.

It sounded louder here than on the beach near their camp and the incessant, invisible sobbing added to the mystery enveloping that surly back.

All of a sudden the Mystery turned plump around and addressed them.

“For the love o’ Mike!” it burst forth irritably, “why do you stand there staring; why don’t you offer to do something for a fellow who’s a ‘goner,’ eh?”

“Are you a ‘goner’?” Penelope plucked up heart to ask; the yellow-brown Mystery was presenting not a back, but a shoulder to her now, together with a short, thick neck, a double chin and the fat profile of a head, covered with clammy hair, which, inclining to one side like a bird’s, looked up at her sidelong.

That slanting gaze became an amazed one presently; the owner of the flesh-cushioned back, whether human or goblin, was evidently struck for a moment by the unique spectacle of two fringed and moccasined maidens, with their hair in long braids, head-bands on their foreheads, colored beads upon their necks, looking down at him from under the waving wing of dusk, their pedestal a white sand-hill.

But his interest in anything outside himself and his clump of basswood was evidently momentary.

“Of course I’m a goner,” he reaffirmed glumly. “Can’t you see it to look at me?” in the tone of one whose plight exempts him from the civilities of life. “I’m just making my will.”

He pointed with the dignity of a dying sage to a little grey book upon his knee and waved a stub of pencil.

“Gee! he’s crazy,” ejaculated Penelope—and Olive was deaf to her slang now.

“No, I’m not ‘crazy,’” came up from the basswood. “I’m poisoned.”

“Poisoned! With—what?” It was Olive’s startled lips which put the question.

“Arsenate of lead.”

Here was a thunderclap, indeed, which shook the sands under the girls’ feet; neither of them knew much about poisons, but this sounded deadly.

“Yes, I guess I’m done for. If you can’t do anything for me, don’t stand staring down at me! I want to make my will in peace.” The fat fingers which held the stubby pencil waved it solemnly and then began to write again in the little grey book which had a vivid colored picture on the cover.

“If I’m to go”—the youthful testator looked up with something like a sob of self-admiration—“if I have to go, I want to die like a plucky—Scout.”

“Ho! He’s a Boy Scout.” Penelope caught her breath. She squeezed Olive’s hand in a convulsive grip. She rose to tiptoe on the sand-peak. Something was rising up in Penelope, stretching itself like a body of fire within her own frame so that she felt it in every extremity of her actual body, something was queening it within her, the motherly impulse, the mothering impulse fed and fostered by the care of three younger brothers.

This fat Scout called himself a “goner.” His puffy cheeks looked pale, too, in the waning golden light; so did the double chin bent over the pencil.

But just so, a year ago, had her thirteen-year-old brother Jim moaned that he was a “goner” when he fell fifteen feet from a tin roof that he was painting and broke his arm in three places.

Jim’s father was away, his deaf mother could not hear the doctor’s requests—the doctor whom Pen hastily summoned; it was Penelope, herself, not then fifteen, who had waited upon the surgeon, furnished safety-pins, etc., while he manipulated his ether bottle and bandages.

It was Penelope who had shrunk into a corner and sobbed and prayed while Jim was taking the ether, but it was Penelope, too, who, when that surgeon needed further help, had stumbled forth from her corner, had bravely stretched herself on the bed beside Jim and held the ether pad to his nostrils and mouth, sticking to the task even when she felt her own senses reeling off into dizzy sickness.

And it was Penelope, now, who tossed Olive’s arm which was around her away, as if it were a lifeless limb of juniper, who in another moment was crouching by the clump of basswood, beside the boy who had made up his mind that he had to “go” and was scribbling his boyish bequests.

Fiercely she grasped his arm in its khaki uniform and shook it!

“Listen to me! Look at me!” she gasped. “Where did you get the arsenic or lead or whatever it was?”

“Arsenate of lead!” corrected the testator, mildly now. “Dead-deadly poison—poisons you some if it only trickles over your body!”

Penny’s cheeks lost a good deal of their color which ebbed away into a hard little island of red under each cheek-bone.

“Where did you get it?” she repeated.

“In the woods over there, beyond the creek, where the trees and the berries and the ground an’ all were sprayed with it.”

“Were you alone? Was anybody with you?”

“Kenjo was. He’s another Scout. He’s gone off over the dunes to try an’ find a house, or camp, to get something to give me. But I guess it’s no use!” with a deep gulp that in a girl would have been a collapsing sob.

“Mercy!” The fingers of Penelope’s left hand distractedly clawed her cheek; her eyes, sharpened to a glittering point, pierced the victim’s face as she thrust her own near to it.

Suddenly she wheeled and changed her tactics.

“Here! let me see the will you’re making: ‘To my brother Basil I leave my push-mobile, stern wheel is off, he can fix it, to my chum Snuffy I leave my mandolin, it has two strings busted, b-but——’” read Penelope aloud in high, strained tones which exploded in a quavering shriek.

She flung the book—it was a Boy Scout diary, with the will scrawled and misspelt upon a blank page headed Memoranda—she flung it from her into the heart of the basswood.

“Look here!” Like a hurricane she turned on the victim. “I don’t say you’re making all this up, but I do believe that, down deep, you’re not sure you’re poisoned an’ are going to die right away. You only think you think you are!”

How on earth Penelope’s girlish intuition leaped to the fact that there was more of melodrama than of hopeless tragedy in this strange scene among the pale dunes Olive did not know, but at heart she felt herself going down on her shaking knees to Penelope for the way in which the younger girl handled the situation, even though Penny’s next words were delivered with her crudest gust.

“Where do you feel bad, anyhow?” She leveled her forefinger at the victim who, deprived of the melancholy satisfaction of making his will and bequeathing his lame treasures, slanted his gaze up at her, his short neck with its double chin thrust forward; there was a fat quiver of that chin now as if he were uncertain whether to follow her hopeful lead, or not.

“‘Ba-ad!’” he echoed waveringly. “Why! I’ve got a circus in my head or a merry-go-round—something that’s wheeling an’ spinning.”

“You’re just dizzy. Have you been wandering round in the woods?”

“Yes, quite a bit.”

“Where else do you feel poisoned? Have you got cramps?”

The victim rubbed his waist-line: “No, but I feel kind o’ sick an’—an’ ’s if ’twas low tide inside me.”

“Pshaw, ten to one you’re hungry! An’ they’re cooking supper over at our camp on the beach. Goodness! I can just smell the bacon toasting here; can’t you, Olive?”

“Ye-es,” fibbed Blue Heron, spreading her dainty nostrils toward the broad sandy acres of up-hill and down-hill which separated the trio from the camp fire—that was later to be a Council Fire—on the beach.

“Bacon!” The victim stirred; a hungry shudder shook him that gave way to a renewed shiver of despair; he stretched out an arm to recover his book.

“No, you sha’n’t have it! You’re not going to die and leave your ‘busted mandolin.’... He! He! He! Hi!” Penelope’s giggle rang out shrilly. “How long is it since you swallowed the poison? You haven’t told yet how you came to take it!”

“I’ll tell you,” struck in another voice. A manly-looking Boy Scout appeared suddenly from behind the basswood, his broad hat pushed back from a haggard face. “I went off to get help for him,” he explained. “I saw some camps, but they were a good way off. I thought I’d come back and haul him over there, where I could give him an antidote, you know, whites of eggs or salt an’ water—or something somebody would let me have.”

“We have got all those things at our camp,” suggested Olive eagerly.

“You see, I don’t know how much he really is poisoned.” This older Scout looked down upon the fat victim. “It all happened this way: We’re camping with a whole lot of other Scouts in that Boy Scout camp among the dunes on the opposite side of the river. Well! to-day our Scoutmaster said that Fatty an’ I might take the rowboat—we call him that—his name is Tommy Orr——”

“Most times they call me the Astronomer, because they say I’m always looking up,” mildly interjected the poisoned one.

“So you are; fat boys who have short necks mostly do; they can’t look at you straight!” threw in Penelope.

“Ha! Indeed! Is that so?” The victim straightened himself more than he had done yet, to glare at her sarcastically, then collapsed into a huddle again. “Well, go on, Kenjo, tell them about the dead chewink with the blackberry in its beak,” he sighed. “We call him Kenjo Red,” with a fat wave of the hand toward his brother Scout, “because we don’t need a fire in camp while we have his head.”

The newcomer, whose scalp-locks escaping from under his broad hat were indeed of the firiest hue, only smiled in a tired way and hastily took up the tale of woe where he dropped it.

“Well, we two took the boat, rowed across to this side of the river and up Loaf Creek, the little creek that runs in round the Sugarloaf——”

“Yes, I know; we’re going to explore it some day,” put in Olive excitedly. “Was it in the woods at the head of the creek that he got the poison?”

“Yes, the ground was all sprayed white with it in one place, but Tommy didn’t notice it at first; he’s only been three months a Scout. We had been wandering about the woods—they were pretty thick—after we landed from the boat and didn’t quite know where we were! Tommy walked on ahead o’ me while I was trying to take our bearings; he had been eating blackberries an’ went on eating ’em——”

“Sour they were, too—mean sour!” interjected Tenderfoot Tommy Orr.

“When I started after him I saw that the ground was all sprayed white here and there with the lead poison that the State uses for getting rid of caterpillar pests and I yelled to him to stop. Just a little farther on we came upon two dead rabbits and three dead birds; one o’ the birds, a chewink—little grey ground-robbin, you know—had a half-pecked blackberry in its beak; another, a wild canary, was stiffening out, with a berry ’longside it.”

This looked horribly serious. Tenderfoot Orr groaned aloud and rubbed his cushioned waist-line.

“Well! Tommy made up his mind then that he was a ‘goner’ as well as the chewink. I saw no house or camp near, so I hustled him back to the boat, rowed down the creek, landed here on the Sugarloaf, where I left him a few minutes ago, to look around and see in which direction there was a camp.”

“Ours is the nearest: we’ll give you all the antidotes you want—salt and water enough to float the boat—or the boy! Goody, how that bacon smells!” Penelope sniffed vigorously to the dune breeze. “We must be getting back anyway, mustn’t we, Olive? They won’t know what on earth’s become of us. Oh, come along!” She seized the tenderfoot’s fat arm as she might have seized that of her brother Jim. “Never mind the little diarybook; exercise your will, now, instead of making it!”

And with a heavy groan, led by the mythical odors of bacon sizzling over an outdoor fire, the hungry tenderfoot picked up his broad hat that rested like an olive-green mushroom in a near-by patch of sage-brush, so alike in hue that it would be hard to tell one from the other, arose and followed her.

Near where the dunes sloped down into the beach, the anxious party came upon Captain Andy. He eyed the girls aslant, reprovingly.

“Well! you two would be a good pair to send after trouble,” he remarked caustically, “you take so long in getting back. I was just starting off on a cruise to look for you.”

“Hullo, Capt’n Andy!” boomed Kenjo, intercepting a reply by his joyous greeting to an old friend: “Yes”—reproachfully—“you’re all taken up with the Camp Fire Girls now—Scouts don’t get a look-in!”

“Petticoats first—bloomers, rather!” chuckled the jolly mariner. “Skirts go ahead—meaning skirts have the preference, especially when they’re new-fangled skirts like these!” pointing to the khaki ceremonial dresses of the two excited girls who had forgotten all about the fuel they gathered.

“Hey! what’s the matter with this Scout? He don’t look very chipper.”

The captain laid a hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

“He’s poisoned—poisoned dead—or thinks he is; from eating blackberries an’ arsenic an’ lead!” explained Penny with great lucidity.

In a few words Kenjo cleared up the situation.

“How long is it since he ate those blackberries?” asked Captain Andy, gravely. “An hour yet?”

“Oh, I guess it is—pretty nearly an hour, anyway.”

“Well! let me tell you that if he had got enough of that arsenate of lead into him to finish him as it did the birds an’ rabbits, he’d hear more from it by this time. You’d have horrible cramps by now an’ you’d look a heap worse than you do!” The captain gazed down reassuringly on Tenderfoot Tommy, alias “the Astronomer,” who, with fat neck thrust forward, was slanting a very anxious look up at him.

“So she said. She said I only b’lieved I b’lieved I was poisoned. She’s a brick.” The Astronomer blinked at Penelope now.

“I’m a star,” she informed him. “That’s my Camp Fire name; as you’re an Astronomer you can look up to me all you want to!” Nobody blamed Pen for her giggle then. “You see, that dead chewink and the wild canary might have pecked at some more poisoned stuff besides the blackberries,” she sagely suggested. “Maybe the sprayed poison wasn’t on the berries at all.”

“That’s so!” assented Captain Andy. “You come over to my tent at the foot o’ the dunes”—he pushed Tommy along by the shoulder. “I know the signs of that poison, for I’ve used it myself; I’ll examine you an’ dose you, if necessary; if not, you can have some supper. It’s all ready down there on the beach. Great guns! I was feelin’ scared about you and so was the Guardian, Miss Dewey.” He looked at the two tired girls. “I thought, maybe, you were never coming back to play that Kullibígan game to-night, after my whittling out the witchtop for you!”

CHAPTER XI

KULLIBÍGAN

The Indian game of Kullibígan was in full swing.

Supper was over, a wonderful outdoor banquet, for which the high tide furnished the orchestra, the white sands the table linen, with the last rays of the dying sun showering bouquets upon its damask.

As if in answer to Captain Andy’s question earlier in the evening when he beheld the bevy of maidens in Indian dress upon the beach, there were two unexpected “braves” at the feast and hungry guests they were; Kenjo, who was entered upon the school-roll of his native town as Kenneth Jordan, bearing in mind that “A Scout is courteous,” the fifth point of the Scout Law, insisted on toasting fresh relays of bacon for the hungry girls and for the Astronomer, who ate enormously.

Captain Andy, in the absence of any severe symptoms of lead poisoning, had come to the conclusion that the tenderfoot was not going to share the fate of the chewink, that he, apparently, did not stand in need, even, of an antidote; still, as a precautionary measure, he flooded him inwardly with strong tea, beneficial in any case of poisoning, until the fat Astronomer declared that he could hear his final mouthfuls of cake splash as they went down.

The after-banquet songs were furnished by the hostesses who chanted their “Wohelo!” cheer, greatly to the edification of the Scouts, followed by their song, “Mystic Fire,” gracefully dramatized by the waving of fringed arms, the swaying of girlish forms around the camp fire upon the twilight sands, lending the final touch of romance to the white wildness of the Sugarloaf, moving the flame of admiration in Kenjo to flicker up into:

“Gee! I thought we Boy Scouts were the ‘whole show’ when it came to new stunts, but I guess it’s as Captain Andy says, ‘Skirts go ahead!’” with a boyish laugh.

“Well! you’ll show them something by ’n’ by, when it gets dark, when you signal with lanterns or an old broom dipped in kerosene to our camp on the dunes across the river to say we’re safe here, for Captain Andy says he won’t let us row back there to-night,” spoke up the now drowsy Astronomer. “He says we can sleep in his tent—a bully tent, divided up into rooms—at the foot of a sand-hill; he was going to have his niece there, but he says she can bunk with the girls.” Tommy waved a fat hand in the direction of Kitty.

“I don’t care; that’s what I want to do,” spoke up little Kitty, erstwhile of “the bleeding heart,” rejoicing in the freedom of her green bloomers. “Morning-Glory—I can’t pronounce her Indian name—says I can sleep with her,” shyly. “And we’ll wake up early and watch the dawn across the river and I may help her cook the breakfast—she’s to be one of the cooks to-morrow.”

“Indeed, you may, but don’t mistake me for Mary-Jane Peg in your sleep; I don’t want to be taken for a pig in a poke!” laughed Jessica, otherwise Welatáwesit. “And now for Kullibígan! What question shall we ask it first?”

“Who’ll be married first?” suggested the Astronomer. “That’s what girls always want to know, isn’t it?”

And then the excitement of the night began in earnest.

The great burnished top, painted by firelight, was set to spinning madly upon a flat stone set in the sand, surrounded by a ring of sitting girls; it revolved dizzily for many seconds, then fell over upon its broad head, as if bowing to Kitty.

The laughter that followed this exploit of the guessing-top made dunes and sea ring; Kitty was to be wedded first, instead of prematurely departing this life.

“Let us ask it something sensible, something that might have an answer in the near future,” suggested Betty Ayres—gay little Betty, whose Camp Fire name was Psuti, the Holly—after sundry other riddles had been propounded to the Kullibígan top for divination—questions as distant in speculation and wild in their answer as the lot which had fallen upon Kitty. “Let’s ask who’ll be the first to attain the highest rank among the Camp Fire Girls, and become a Torch Bearer!”

“Good!” approved Gheezies, the presiding Guardian of the Fire.

Psuti, with two little hands upon the broadest point of the tall top’s circumference, skilfully set it revolving upon the stone; as before, it seemed to have no sense of the fitness of things; it toppled toward her, as nearly as its falling direction—a wide point of debate—could be determined, she having swiftly resumed her seat in the circle.

“Pshaw! it doesn’t know much: Morning-Glory will be the first Torch Bearer; she’s a Fire Maker already,” burst impetuously from one or two of the girls. “And she’s going to do some work among little girls when we go back to the city, form a Nest of Blue Birds, as it’s called, among the poor children of that big playground which we visited, show them how to dress their dolls and so forth,” suggested Sesooā, “make them happy once a week for three months; that’s part of the test for becoming a Torch Bearer.”

“I suppose you’ll draw that little deaf-and-dumb girl whose life you saved into the nest—eh?” Mŭnkwŏn turned inquiringly toward Morning-Glory. “Whew! I’ll never forget that day—the shock we all got!” The breast of Arline’s ceremonial dress, embroidered with her rainbow symbol, heaved; the many-colored honor-beads upon her neck shook. “Fancy! the poor child drowning, or next door to it, in two feet and a half of water!”

“Two feet and a half of water! Drowning! A deaf-and-dumb child!” Nobody had noticed the “shock” which Kenjo experienced as the Rainbow’s words fell upon his ear, reaching him where he squatted on the sands, just outside the circle of girls gathered round the fortune-telling top, now lying idle upon the flat stone.

“Is—is a Torch Bearer the highest rank among the Camp Fire Girls?” Kenjo went on to ask eagerly, thrusting the flame of his red head dangerously near to the Council Fire. “To be an Eagle Scout is the highest a fellow can go among the Boy Scouts—and mighty few ever get there! A Scout must have twenty-one merit badges for that! But we have an Eagle Scout in our camp,” proudly. “He’s a sort of Assistant Scoutmaster, directing the athletics. He saved a deaf-and-dumb child from drowning in shallow water this summer—dragged her out and brought her to, resuscitated her; a Camp Fire Girl helped him.”

“Helped him! He helped her, you mea-ean!” The excited challenge delivered in three girlish voices rose to a screaming trio. “Where did it happen? What’s his name?” followed in a minor key.

“Yes, where did it happen?” gasped the Blue Heron, Olive, bending excitedly forward from her place near the fire.

“In the city of Clevedon, I think. Stack comes from there or from some town near it; he was dressed for a big Boy Scout Rally at the Clevedon Armory and was taking a short cut across a public playground when he heard a lot of children yelling—girls shrieking——”

“We weren’t shrieking at all! There!” flung out Sesooā between her teeth. “If ‘Stack’ is the only name he’s got, I don’t think much of it.” The firefly in Sally’s eyes danced upon the twilight.

“That’s what we call him in camp; his name is Miles Stackpole.”

“That’s better,” came from Morning-Glory, Miles’s partner in that playground rescue.

“Stack said the girl who helped was a pippin.” Here the Astronomer who had been dozing upon the firelit sands suddenly awoke from a dream in which Penelope’s red cheek was a poisoned cherry and he a chewink pecking at it to his destruction. “He said she was a peach and could do something,” went on Tenderfoot Tommy; “that she wasn’t all fluff an’ stuff or frills an’ stuff, like most girls, afraid of a little wetting!”

“Oh! indeed? A lot he must know about girls!” Every voice in the feminine circle went to swell this sarcasm or something like it.

Each feminine soul there felt that life could not be all mystic motions and ceremonial dresses, their rich cream at present, nor yet bloomers and middy blouses; all looked forward to the pleasing variety of frilly hours again, with hearts, if only for the space of a short party-hour, correspondingly frivolous.

Meanwhile the Astronomer, with his gaze slanting upward from the sands and trained upon the feminine circle, was suffering at the hands of Kenjo who had tried to stifle his confidences.

“Oh! Won’t Stack just lick you when we get back to camp and he hears how you gave him away?” scolded the older Scout. “You go to sleep again; that’s the only time you’re safe, Fatty. We’re going to ask the Kullibígan top another question, something exciting, with real ‘pep’ in it, this time: ‘Who’s going to dig up a fortune from the sands?’ May I come in on the answer to this?” Ken appealed eagerly to the Guardian of the Camp Fire.

“Certainly. And may you come in on the fortune, too, if there is one!” Thus Gheezies gave her smiling consent, tagging it with a good wish.

“Oh! that’s too far-fetched to be exciting; nobody really believes in finding Captain Kidd’s treasure nowadays, although Captain Andy says that some of it was certainly hidden along the coast here, but that the tidal current must have sucked it out into the river long ago,” protested Betty, in a fringed flutter.

“And Stack says that he met a professor of something who was round here studying tides, and the prof said he didn’t believe that the current could do any such thing!” threw back Ken hotly.

“Oh! it’s such a hackneyed old question, anyway.” Thus Morning-Glory backed up Betty.

“A regular ‘chestnut,’” yawned Penelope, who was getting sleepy.

“Well! isn’t a ‘chestnut yarn’ the best kind to anchor to with a hope of its coming true?” Kenjo appealed to the Guardian with a fire that matched his ruddy hair. “At least”—muttering low—“I think I learned in high school that some old fellow said that.”

“He said a ‘platitude’ was; I’m not sure but that they’re one and the same thing,” replied Gheezies, with a smile.

“Ah, but we’ve something to anchor to besides a ‘chestnut’—Stack and I!” Kenneth Jordan, second-class Scout, thrust his fiery head close to Jessica’s and spoke in a hollow voice of mystery scarcely to be heard in the firelit twilight beyond her ear, although Sesooā, on the other side of him, caught crumbs of the confidence. “We said we wouldn’t tell anybody lest they’d laugh at us for digging.” The Scout became a husky shell for his secret. “But I guess, maybe, Stack won’t mind my telling you as you helped him save that dumb child. He an’ I”—the secret began to crack the shell—“he an’ I were down on the Neck yesterday,” jerking an elbow in the direction of the sand-bar at the river’s mouth, “and there was an old man there, hunting big hen-clams, at low tide; he told us he was over ninety; we asked him how long he expected to live an’ he said: ‘Down here, you live as long as you want to!’”

“Is that the secret?”

There was a shout from the girls. Ken’s voice had risen like the tide upon the old clam-hunter’s words. It sank mysteriously again.

“We asked him, too”—the secret was popping out now in Jessica’s favored ear—“whether he believed there was treasure hidden along that beach or among the dunes. He said, ‘Sure as a hen-clam hops there is!’ Then he put his face close to Stack’s—he hadn’t a tooth—and pointed to a certain spot among the dunes and said that a few years ago (we dug out of him that ’twas about thirty) a handful of old gold and silver coins had been picked up there. We pumped him further, but his mind wandered, he didn’t seem able to pin it long to anything, he only mumbled and shuffled off after a big hen-clam—surf-clam, you know—that tried to get away from him by hopping off on its one funny little leg that it thrust out of the shell. ’Twas the queerest thing you ever saw to watch him trying to rake it up with his iron fork.”

“Must ha’ been! A hopping clam!” This set Penny giggling, for the Scout’s voice had risen again upon the irrelevant matter of the aged clam-hunter’s raking among the treasures left by the last high tide.

Her paroxysm brought Kenjo to himself and to his manners, set him diffidently apologizing to the Guardian for daring to drop a secret within her magic ring, at the other end of her firelit circle.

“Stack’d go for me for doing such a thing,” he gasped. “I guess I put my foot in it, too, like Fatty! Well! here goes for pumping the guessing-top about that treasure!”

With a strong twist of his tanned hands he set the Kullibígan revolving; it spun itself dizzy and fell between Sally and Arline.

“Never mind; we’ll try again; best two out of three!” cried the Scout. “Now, then, old top, spin your durndest. Tell us who digs up a fortune from the sands!”

The Kullibígan answered his appeal, thrilled him with a half-superstitious tingle from neck to heel by sprawling over toward him.

“Again! Again! Once more!”

It fell precipitately toward Morning-Glory, turned a somersault and stood upon its head.

“Well! it has given me one chance to come in on the treasure, anyhow.” Thus Kenjo, crestfallen over its last dizzy feat, consoled himself. “Stack an’ I’ll dig; you bet we’ll dig; we’ll take Toiney into the secret. I believe he’d scent a coin as he scents a spring a mile off!”

“Who’s Toiney!” For the last minute the girls had sat very still, not a leather fringe stirring; now they spoke again.

“Toiney! Oh! he’s an Assistant Scoutmaster who gives us lessons in wood-lore and in tracking an’ trailing; he’s a French Canadian, with a strain of Indian in him. Well!” Kenjo heaved a long breath. “He’ll be organizing a search party to look for us—if he hasn’t done so already. He’s the stuff, although I guess you girls would call him queer stuff!”

“Are you going to try to signal to the opposite dunes to let them know you’re safe?” asked the Camp Fire Girl whose name meant Peace.

“I’m not going to ‘try.’ I’m going to do it, signal by semaphore code the word ‘Safe,’ if Captain Andy can let me have a couple of camp lanterns—that is, if I can make ’em see me at our camp, get their attention!”

“I guess I have only one lantern that’s strong enough to be seen at a distance,” responded the mariner.

“Well! if you have some kerosene oil and an old broom that you don’t mind being burned up?”

“Hurrah! we’ll furnish you with that,” cried the girls, all eager for the exhibition.

And, now, the Boy Scouts had their innings so far as a “showing-off stunt” was concerned.

Scaling a very high rock whose base was laved by the tide, pushing the corn broom for a burnt offering before him, Ken drew up the lantern and oil-can shoved aloft by the captain.

A ring of excited girls, with their Guardian, scattered to a little distance whence they could have a good view of the signaling Scout and his performance.

One minute, and the oil-soaked broom flamed, its blaze streaming forth, a mighty flare-up, to be seen miles off!

The Scout waved the burning besom to and fro, making strange, mysterious passes with it, before attempting to signal a message. “If I can only get their attention at our camp!” he muttered yearningly.

There were a few very anxious moments.

Then Captain Andy roared up to the signalman:

“It’s all right! You’ve got ’em! They see you. There’s a light showing upon a peak of those other dunes that wasn’t there before. Most likely they were out searching an’ watching for a signal from you. Go ahead with the message!”

Then Ken lowered the lantern with its strong reflector almost to his feet, his left arm held the blazing broom at arm’s length—sowing a hissing fire-crop in the sea—to form the letter S.

“Safe. Kenjo.” He spelled it out by the code, fiery letter by letter.

“Isn’t it wonderful—that fire-talk?” breathed little Kitty; Mary-Jane Peg and the orchard seemed very far away; she had not begun to live until now.

“Broom’s not burned out yet, Cap!” shouted down the Scout to Captain Andy. “Here’s for signaling a message that’ll keep ’em guessing all night!”

“What’s that?”

“‘Safe at Camp Morning-Glory’! Sounds as if we were camping on the sun’s trail. Here goes! Watch—me!”

The broom-handle, sprayed with oil, was sacrificed to Glory, the lingering flame of the besom, of the compressed corn fibre, having given out.

But if ever a camp broom perished gloriously, that one did.

Its waterside illumination set the sea aflame, lit up the brown, beaded figures of the girls, caused far distant lighthouses, with other nocturnal eyes gleaming from headland and hill up and down the opposite shore of the river, to pale and wink themselves out for the moment.

Ken tossed the handle into the river, a proud Scout having demonstrated that along every line it was not “Skirts go ahead—skirts take the lead!” even if they were ceremonial skirts.

“Well! I guess our Scoutmaster and Toiney will feel easy about us now; they surely got some of that message I flashed ’em,” he proclaimed sliding down the rock, feeling like a king-boy. “’Twas good of you girls to let me make a fire-stick an’ fiddlestick out o’ your camp broom,” laughing triumphantly. “We owe you a supper, too, Tommy an’ I—I hope you’ll let us pay it back some time!”

“Oh! yes, when we visit your camp—if we ever do. Boys can’t cook like girls, though!”

“Can’t they? Haw! Haw!” came in accents of cotton-wool irony from the Astronomer’s padded throat. “We’ll give you red-flannel hash, with frills to it. I say, Ken, let’s give ’em something now—let’s give a rousing Scout yell for them! She”—leveling a fat finger at Penelope—“first got me to thinking that I only thought I thought, she thought I was poisoned. Hey! that was the way of it, wasn’t it?” appealing to the convulsed Penny. “Now, then, rise to it, Kenjo!”

The youthful signalman fought shy of this ebullition at first, but on Captain Andy’s saying approvingly: “That’s the very caper! Good idea, Ken; go ahead an’ drive it!” he did drive the patriotic yell in honor of their girl-hostesses with all the might that was in him.

With his arm across the Astronomer’s fat back as the latter stood with cushioned legs wide apart upon the sands, Tommy’s arm, likewise, embracing his backbone, swaying together like double bellows, they pantingly drove that yell while the dune-breeze joined in and the sonorous gush of the high tide, too, seemed to proclaim that it was the “very caper,” a proper tribute, indeed.

“A-M-E-R-I-C-A

Boy Scouts!    Boy Scouts!

U. S. A.

Camp Fire Girls!    Camp Fire Girls!

Camp Fire Girls!”

“Oh-h!” It was a prolonged ejaculation; the girls’ eyes were wet and winking above the wreathing smiles upon their lips as the notes boomed off over the night-tide, setting the river a-roar.

“Oh, this has been a won-der-ful evening altogether,” said the Guardian, her face an illumination that beamed softly upon the final echo which seemed to strike those distant dunes upon the opposite side of the tidal-river.

“Aye! Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls!” chuckled Captain Andy meditatively. “Boy Scouts and Camp Fire Girls, theirs—theirs is the coming tide!”

CHAPTER XII

FLOURED GLASS

Sesooā heard a sob. A frank sob that published the trouble of some girl’s heart to the dunes and to the sea! And Sally did not know what to do about it.

It was the first sob she had heard during the six weeks that the girls of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire had been camping on the white Sugarloaf.

“Somebody is thinking that it’s nearly the end of August and that we’ll be going back to the city pretty soon!” she surmised. “Oh-h, to be a seal!” The golden spark in her eyes, the dancing firefly, lit out over the waves and hovered above a sleek dog-like head, but larger than a dog’s, appearing above the water some fifty yards from the white beach on which she stood. “Oh, to be a harbor seal and stay here always to sun oneself on a sands-pit in summer and in winter ride an ice-cake, as the seals do! I was made to be a wild thing!” Her laughter rippled, clear and low, like the ebbing tide, but she dammed it up lest it should intrude upon the feeling betrayed by that other unaccountable sound which she had just heard, coming from the farther side of a barrier of rock that intersected the beach.

“I wonder, now, which of the girls it is?” she silently speculated. “Is Kitty yearning for her orchard and the grunting society of Mary-Jane Peg? But she seems so happy here among us! Yet, perhaps, the scare we got three days ago upset her, when that big seal dived under our rowboat and upset it, half-way up ’Loaf Creek! Oh, bubbles! that was a bad spill.” Here another low splash of laughter dropped its liquid notes to mingle with the distant mirth of the tide, breaking far out, as Sesooā, in thought, glanced past the rock-barrier, past some acres of intervening dunes freshly swept by a southwesterly wind, at the winding blue creek, Sugarloaf Creek, that crept in round the back of the Sugarloaf Peninsula until it lost itself in the woods where the fat Astronomer came to grief.

“Captain Andy says we were lucky to see a seal out of the water even at the cost of a ducking,” she ruminated further, “and that we, probably, wouldn’t have done so at all if that great big fellow, weighing a couple of hundred pounds or so, hadn’t gone far up the creek after the ‘feed,’ meaning the huge eel that he was devouring, half out of water, when we rowed round a marshy bend right on to him.... Goodness! of all the ‘mix-ups’ then! I’ll never forget it!” The last words formed themselves aloud in her laughter-filled throat. “Six of us girls struggling in the water! Sybil and Kitty an’ Betty up to their necks although ’Loaf Creek is shallow! And that big, spotted harbor seal which bumped into us and capsized us, just making for the creek’s mouth as hard as he could swim! I guess he knew where the deep water was, all right!”

She stood gazing out at the receding tide, seeing again the sleek head of the capsizing mammal as he put for the open water, the tidal channel, doubtless, vowing by the shades of his ancestors, the tidal tadpoles, that he would never be caught up a narrow creek again by a boat-load of shrieking girls.

“I hardly think it’s Kitty who is sorrowful or ‘peeved’ over something.” Sally was conscious of the thought which crowded out the seal as another low, gulping noise, mysteriously like a sob, came from the other side of the crusted barrier of rock. “That doesn’t sound like Kitty, either!” She put her ear to the crusty rock-heart. “Kitty Sill behaved as well as any of us all through the ducking in the creek—our wildest adventure as yet—all she said when it was over and we were safe in the boat again was: ‘Will you tell Mary-Jane Peg that I was brave?’ She’s simply killing with her talk about that pedigreed pig! She’s the funniest little thing! And Jessica vowed she’d make a special call on Mary-Jane.... Oh, gracious!” Sally’s hands came softly together upon a flame of dismay that scorched their palms. “Good gracious, I do believe it’s Jessica, herself—Morning-Glory, if you please—who’s having a quiet cry ‘all by her lonely’! And she’s the most popular girl in camp.”

The camp favorite, the most popular girl, had, nevertheless, if sounds could be trusted, a pent-up trouble of some kind which she wasn’t withholding from the sea; there was a restless movement on the other side of the rock as if somebody rolled over on the sands, followed by a lonely, grieved sobbing that appealed to the ebbing tide for comfort.

Now, all at once, impulsive Sally was filled with a jealousy of that low-ebb tide for being chosen as a confidant; she would have liked to thrust it farther out still. Before she knew what she was doing this feeling and another, overwhelming curiosity, spread wide their wings and wafted her lightly over the rock-barrier.

She descended with a pounce upon the other side and immediately began to flutter and cackle inarticulately, like a hen in a flowerbed.

The patch of white beach beyond the rock-fence was fairly abloom with colored articles which attracted the scanty sunshine that, to-day, was having a tilt with the ruffling southwesterly wind as to which should rule the weather.

One sunbeam poked his finger inquisitively among the small blocks of paint in a box of water-colors lying open upon the sands. Another slanted his eye like an amused connoisseur at a sheet of cardboard pinned down by a chunk of pale driftwood and bearing a crude, very highly colored painting of blue water between dauby green marsh-banks and of a boat being upset by some fabulous sea-monster that was apparently trying to climb into it.

Sally jumped to the conclusion that this was meant for a kind of “colored supplement” comic illustration of the accident which had happened in ’Loaf Creek, on which her thoughts had lately been dwelling, for the seal had the ears of a jackass and claws an inch long upon his fore-flippers which grappled the side of the boat.

She cackled exceedingly at sight of it and shuffled in the sand, like the hen who has found not colors only, but something fruitful, also, in the bed of bloom.

Then she caught her breath with an amazed start, like Captain Andy’s when he saw the same sort of thing; a third sunbeam was surveying himself under difficulties in a sheet of glass about the size of a small window-pane, which looked as if it had been floured over, dulled and whitened by a very watery paste of some kind.

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Sally who thought that she had eschewed slang with Penelope before her eyes as a horrible example. “What are you doing with the pane of glass, Jessica dearie, mixing biscuits on it?” with a low explosion of laughter.

“No-o,” mumbled the owner of the flowerbed who, with face averted from the intruder, looked rather like a glossy, green shrub trained and clipped into fantastic shape, of the style which, once upon a time, presided over old-fashioned gardens; for her sweater of dark green wool and her Camp Fire Girl’s Tam O’Shanter finished with an emerald pompon matched in hue her olive-green khaki skirt—all of which apparently failed to create a verdant atmosphere of spring in her young heart at present.

“Are you trying cookery experiments on the glass?” laughed Sesooā, much mystified and excitingly tickled by curiosity, for her roving gaze now took in among the litter of articles on the sands a little earthenware crock with a paste that looked like very thin, dyspeptic dough in it. “Olive—Blue Heron—says that her father used to declare that her cookery ought to be tried upon the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals before human beings were allowed to partake of it—that was before she became a Camp Fire Girl—but you’re testing it on the pane of glass. Why! Jess—Jessica—Morning-Glory—I didn’t mean to tease you, honey; you’re not peeved with me for finding you here all alone and feeling blue, are you?” Sesooā flung herself upon her knees on the wind-ruffled sand and slipped an arm around the green shoulders of her Camp Fire Sister whose breast was again ploughed by random sobs.

Sally—the little oriole of the city playground—was gay in throat and inquisitive as that orange-and-black songster, but she was wonderfully soft of heart, too; she bit her lip and puckered up her eye-corners, determined that, if she could help it, a Camp Fire Sister should not weep alone any more than she should stand alone.

Then in the space of one long breath her working face was smoothed out as if an electric iron passed over it. Her glance had fallen again upon the dauby comic picture of the blue creek and the boat with half-formed human figures, some of which were being wildly shot into the air by a dragon-like seal.

“Ha! you were painting that—our ducking in ’Loaf Creek—for little Rebecca, weren’t you?” Caressingly she dropped her chin upon the green heave of Morning-Glory’s shoulders. “You’re going to send it to her, eh? But surely you’re not crying about her? She probably doesn’t realize that she’s deaf-and-dumb, different from other children. And you’ve done so much for her, dearie, saving her life and all—the Eagle Scout only came in on the tail-end of the rescue. And you can do more when we go back to the city.”

“Oh! what d’you take me for? F-Fudge! I’m not crying about her—I’m not so—so soft—what earthly g-good would it do her?”

The Morning-Glory’s broken accents were snappish, scraping against a rasp within.

“Well! you needn’t eat me up for suggesting it.” Sally withdrew her chin and made a face at the green shoulders whose back was still toward her. “I’m going away if you’re as cross as a thorn!”

“I wish to goodness you would! No, I don’t! Come here, Sally!” Jessica stretched out a hand as the other girl rose to her feet. “I don’t mean to be raspy and snappy; I have tried to live up to the Camp Fire law all the time we’ve been here, to ‘Be happy!’ I oughtn’t to say that, for it didn’t really take any ‘trying’—I have been! But every one of the rest of you girls have a home to go back to—when this—this jolly camping-time is over. I haven’t!”

“Haven’t you a home with the Deerings, with Olive and Sybil and their awfully rich father—and your Cousin Anne?”

“Olive heard, to-day, from her father that he’s going to be married again in the fall; Sybil doesn’t know it yet; she only told me. Olive is away off on a sand-hill, now, making up her mind to be lovely to the new stepmother because she thinks that’s what her own mother would have her do. But”—a long-drawn gasp—“perhaps the new wife won’t want Cousin Anne or me in the house—me, anyway, as I’m no relation at all to the Deerings.”

“Pshaw, I’ll bet she’ll be delighted to have you! If not, Cousin Anne and you can live together.”

“Cousin Anne hasn’t enough money to support herself, much less me! She had, but she lost most of it a few years ago by the failure of a mining company in which she had invested largely. She had just enough left for ‘pin money’, as Mr. Deering, who’s her cousin, told her; so he offered her a home in his house to be a kind of mother to his daughters and superintend their education. Then”—another long gasp shaking the moss-green shoulders—“then when the friend of Mother’s who took me in after my mother died nearly two years and a half ago—(I used to help her with her housework, this friend, and call her ‘Auntie’ though she wasn’t any relation, either), when she had to go to China with her husband, Cousin Anne was so worried, not knowing what was to become of me, that Mr. Deering, to please her, I suppose, invited me on a visit to his home for a year, or a year and a half, until I get through high school.... But oh!—oh! it’s hard for a girl like me to lose both father and mother—not to belong to anybody—really.”

Yet, even as her lips quivered upon this climax of her sorrow, Morning-Glory sat deliberately up, exposing her face to Sally’s voice, and gazed off at the far-out tide which the ever-quickening southwesterly wind was ruffling with a prophecy of squalls and rain, determined not to make a scene here on the cloudy sands as she did in the Deerings’ library under the glamor of that painted window where the young monk pored over a parchment book.

But the association of then and now presently made her chin tremble again; blindly she caught at Sally’s hand.

“You—you were laughing at my pasty sheet of glass,” she gasped. “But this morning, when I got thinking how, in ten days, now, we’ll leave these lovely Sugarloaf dunes, go back to the city and to school, to hard work, studying, I felt that if—if I could only study along the lines Father had picked out for me, I wouldn’t mind quite so much—that it would seem to bring me nearer to him and to my mother, too.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“He had it all planned before he died three years ago that I was to take up his work—study art and design—become an artist. He thought I could by an’ by earn my living, as he did, by getting into the designing-room connected with some big stained-glass works where they turn out beautiful painted windows.... He”—breathlessly—“he said I had just the same love of color that he had. And I have! I have!” passionately. “When I wake early and watch a dawn here over the river and those opposite white dunes, I feel it—feel it in my very toes!” curling up those tingling members.

“Ha-a!” Sesooā laughed shortly, but it wasn’t a mirthful chuckle; the firefly was snuffed out in her eyes, the golden sparkle that lent such life to them.

“And why can’t you become an artist—or a designer—look forward to earning your living in that way?” she gravely asked.

“Oh, because I’ve no money, not a dollar, not a cent!” shiveringly. “And I should have some in order to educate me properly; I’d have to take a long art course in some School of Design—or Institute——”

“But if you were to tell Olive—her father is so rich!”

“Sally! Do you think I want to ‘sponge’ on them? No, I’ll just have to work ever so hard when we go back to the city, finishing out my course in the Commercial High School, learning to be an expert typist, so that I can earn my living as a stenographer. Other girls like that—the noisy room with fifty typewriters going together—I don’t!”

“Every one to his taste! I’d prefer it to painting on glass. Were you trying to do that this morning?” glancing at the befloured pane.

“Yes, father used to prepare the glass first by rubbing it with lime (I hadn’t any lime) and then spreading the thinnest layer of common paste over it; when that dried he’d lay the sheet of glass over the paper design which he had already painted and outline the design in pencil—make a cartoon, as he said—on the glass. I was just trying my hand on common glass”—whimsically—“thinking how it would be if some day I could paint a design for a beautiful Camp Fire Girls’ colored window.”

Slowly Morning-Glory raised the dulled glass and gave a glimpse of a crudely painted design underneath, which yet showed original talent; the figure of a Camp Fire Girl in a ceremonial dress and pearly head-band, her feet poised upon cloud-billows that looked very like ethereal footballs at the present stage of the crude design; over her glowed what was meant to be a sunburst, in one hand was a variegated flower, a morning-glory, in the other an unrolling scroll intended to bear the magic watchword, “Wohelo!”

“Oh! I think it’s lovely. Oh! aren’t you clever? You ought to get a National Honor from Headquarters for even thinking out such a thing,” effervesced Sally. “Oh! I wish you could ‘cut’ the typewriters and do what you want to do. Haven’t you any relatives on your father’s side who’d help you out?”

“No; his only sister died when she was young; there are just some cousins who have large families of their own.” Jessica laid down the pasty pane of glass, too cloudily dulled to be ever painted on successfully.

Suddenly Sesooā skipped to her feet and began kicking at the pale sands like an explorer.

“O dear!” she gasped, trying to be funny, and failing, “why can’t what the Kullibígan guessing-top promised come true and some of us dig up a fortune from the sands?”

“Not much likelihood of that! Besides the fortune-telling top was so divided in its spinning mind about who was to find it!” Morning-Glory laughed chokingly.

“And aren’t there any other living relatives of your mother’s?”

“Yes, one—my dear, handsome great-gran’father in the old miniature!” The speaker dimpled through the tear-stains on her cheeks, her voice rocked between a sob and a song, her white teeth flashed at the dead-low tide which was just on the turn and thinking of flowing back again. “He’s alive to me! I wish I had brought the ivory miniature down here with me; then you girls would have fallen in love with him in his blue coat and brass buttons—he has the livingest, merriest smile—the miniature was painted when he was a very young man; he was over forty when he was drowned, sticking to his ship and one helpless passenger to the last, while most of the crew tried to escape in boats.”

“I should think you’d like to go over to the old town of Newburyport where you told me he once lived and see it—it’s not so awfully far from here by motor-boat and train.”

At this Jessica winced again; such a longing had been in her breast all summer, but she was a loyal, loving girl who hated to draw more than was necessary on Cousin Anne’s resources while in camp and even a forty-mile, roundabout journey would cost something.

“My great-grandfather, Captain Josiah Dee, only sailed out of Newburyport and down the Merrimac River, over the sand-bar at its mouth, when his ship, The Wave Queen, was simply ‘ballasted,’ so Mother told me; then he’d make a long trip to the West Indies and when he came back heavily loaded—or the ship was—he’d put into Baltimore or New York,—some big seaport! He made a good deal of money, but spent nearly all of it; his wife died in 1839 and the next year he went away on his last voyage; before he came back his only son, my grandfather, heard a rumor of gold in California and started off there to make a fortune, taking only the miniature in a wooden case that he made for it and a little old Bible with him.”

“Did he make a fortune?”

“No, he never got farther than the Isthmus of Panama; it was so hard to reach the Pacific Coast in those days. He was sick after landing on the Isthmus and stayed there a long time. Any letters that may have been sent never reached him. At last he got back to America, to New York, and there heard that The Wave Queen had been wrecked on her last voyage and every one aboard her, captain and crew, lost.”

“Ugh-h! he must have felt bad then,” came softly from Sesooā.

“He did. He drew out a little money that my great-grandfather had deposited in a New York bank in his son’s name and his own, and took ship right away for England where his grandparents had come from. But he must have been restless,” meditatively; “he came back to America again, just after the Civil War, settled in the South and married quite late in life; my mother was his only child.... Always he kept the old miniature for which he had a leather case made and, oh! I’m so glad he did.” The Morning-Glory’s lip quivered again, but the moisture in her eyes sparkled. “Whenever I look at it, I feel that, whatever happens, I just must be as ‘game’ as my great-gran’daddy who was a hero, by all accounts, and saved as many lives as Captain Andy did. Perhaps he, too, sang Captain Andy’s old sea-song about ‘when perils gather round’:

“‘We sing a little and laugh a little
And work a little and play a little
And fiddle a little and foot it a little,
As bravely as we can!
As bravely as we can!’

And that’s what I’m going to do even among a storm of typewriters!”

“Yes, and you have ten whole days yet before you need think about facing that storm! And picture the fun we’re going to have in the meantime!” Sally crowed over the cheering prospect. “Think of the Grand Council Fire meeting which our Guardian is arranging, when we’re to meet and have a picnic with two other Camp Fire tribes of this region, the Granite Shore Tribe and the Twin-Light Tribe.”

“It’s the Twin-Light Tribe, who take their name from the twin lighthouses on Thatcher’s Island, who want to give a party in our honor, next week, at an hotel on the mainland and invite some of the Boy Scouts, too, from their camp on the dunes, across the river.” Jessica’s eyes shone now between her red eyelids like twin-lights waking up. “Then, indeed, we’ll all ‘foot it a little’ in the old-fashioned dances—as bravely as we can!”

“Yes—and, Jessica honey!” Sesooā crept close to her Camp Fire Sister, her voice a loving croon. “If the new Mrs. Deering shouldn’t really want you to stay on in the Deering Mansion, as it’s called, why! you can come to us—Father an’ Mother would love to have you—for a long visit. They’re so dear!” with a yearning quaver in the voice. “Our home isn’t grand like the Deerings’—but——”

“But ‘your heart’s right there,’ isn’t it?”

The two girls clung together upon the cloudy beach while the rising southwester footed it round them.

CHAPTER XIII

WIND AGAINST TIDE

“As bravely as we can!”

Jessica chanted the words to her painted oars, bright, talkative oars that spoke through many vivid emblems painted on blade and handle by herself and her Camp Fire Sisters.

A tongue of flame licked the dripping blade of one of them, mocking the water in which it was dipped, where Sesooā had gaudily painted her Camp Fire symbol, so characteristic of the little fire-witch who had mastered the art of getting fire without matches.

“Dear little Sally! if I could love one girl of our Morning-Glory Camp Fire better than another ’twould be Sally, next to Olive!” So said the girl-rower to herself, answering the appeal of the spray-feathered flame. “And ’twas so nice of her to go off and leave me to myself for a little while after I’d told her all my story—what I was crying about—I do feel a step happier for telling her!” smiling tremulously. “Her going will give me time for just half-an-hour’s row, alone, before dinner. And the water isn’t very rough near shore, though there’s a wild tumble of tide out in the middle of the river. This sou’wester is a ripping breeze!”

Thus the would-be designer of a painted window, enshrining the form of a Camp Fire Girl and consecrated to her ideals, soliloquized as she, Jessica Dee Holley, rowed briskly out from the Sugarloaf shore toward the wild-looking water that foamed and leaped at the broad heart of the tidal river.

The tide was still so low that she had difficulty in shoving off her flat-bottomed dory which Captain Andy had put at the service of the girls, but the feat was accomplished at last, at the cost of wet ankles.

“Never mind! I’ll change when I get back. I couldn’t have a row after dinner; it’s going to ‘rain pitchforks,’” the girl had told herself as she finally took her seat in the boat. “It’s breezing up for a good hard blow, too—sou’westerly squall, maybe—a mighty bad squall when it blows off the Sugarloaf, over a hundred acres of tall sand-hills, so Captain Andy says. I sha’n’t go out far! But I love the sea when it gets an angry rake on”—again mentally quoting the captain. “I like to feel myself mistress of it in a boat—I suppose that’s my great-grandfather coming alive in me!”

It would have been so much better if this one of her dead and gone relatives who seemed to have been a power could have “come alive” outside her, to smooth her way and steer her girlish course, so the rower thought, and rowed on thinking about him, his adventures on the deep, his life-saving achievements when he rescued the shipwrecked crews of other vessels. In high school she had read about Ulysses—hero of the greatest poem of antiquity—who was represented as being such a strong-hearted sailor, but Ulysses played second fiddle to her great-grandfather in her youthful imagination.

Thinking of the latter now, of the gallant shoulders in the blue coat, the dimpled chin, the hair and eyes so like her own, as everybody said—thinking of these as depicted in the old miniature which she had left locked in her desk in the Deering Mansion for safety—lent a glamor to the hard, short sea, wildly tipped with foam, that was springing up about her boat.

It might well be termed the sea, that part of the tidal river on which she was vaguely rowing, for the sand-bar at the river’s mouth where the breakers combed and foamed and the brown, sandy point called the Neck, on which those breakers threw their white bonnets aloft, was less than a mile away.

And what Jessica did not realize while she spun romances about that sailor-ancestor of hers and while she felt the daring drop of sea-blood inherited from him revel in her veins, was that the strong sou’westerly wind blowing offshore, gaining tremendous force as it drove across the hundred acres of pale sand-hills that made up the Sugarloaf Peninsula, was sweeping her steadily down nearer to where the white fangs of those breakers were set in the brown throat of the Neck.

She felt comfortably safe, for the water upon which she had launched her boat, and, indeed, for nearly half a mile offshore where she was aimlessly rowing about, though choppy and white-capped, was not dangerously rough, not so rough but that she could turn back and land again when she chose, for the Sugarloaf sand-dunes whose highest peak rose to two hundred feet above sea-level acted as a windbreak, so that the tremendous, ever-increasing force of the squally gusts only struck outside that half-mile belt of comparative calmness.

How hard they hit when they did strike, lashing the middle of the river into a whirlpool, angered by the tide which had just turned and was feebly opposing them, the dreaming Morning-Glory, exulting in being mistress of them and of her boat, did not know.

She never meant to be foolhardy. She knew that to obey that stringent point of the Camp Fire Law: “Hold on to Health!” she must not only care for her body and steer clear of sickness when she could, but that over and above that, far more important still, she must avoid unnecessary and aimless danger, for in the latter case, nine times out of ten, she would imperil not her own life alone, but some other life more mature and in the world’s estimate more valuable—as has sadly happened once among Camp Fire ranks—a life that might be nobly given in trying to save her.

In what followed she was largely the victim of ignorance—because the word-pictures to which she had listened, painting squalls upon the tidal river near its mouth, fell so short of the reality—and of the absence of Captain Andy who had taken a party of other campers up the river in his motor-boat, as well as of her desire to work off, in rowing, the grieving depression which had clung to her on the beach.

She did fling it overboard; as the choppy waves belabored the dory’s nose she presently laughed aloud as she chastised them with her painted oars, feeling that theirs was just rough play, the wild, boisterous sport of a young dog, proud of his strength, who shows all his teeth in his gambols, but will never close them upon his friends.

She laughed and chanted exultantly a line of some old sea-song while the gusts tore at the green pompon of her woolen Tam O’Shanter and tried to snatch the jaunty, tight-fitting cap itself off her head.

“Ouch!

“‘The wind she blow a hurricane,

By ’n’ by she blow some more!’

I’m having lots of fun with you!” she sang to them. “And now I guess it’s high time for me to turn back; it must be almost dinner-hour; Gheezies, our Guardian, and the girls may be getting anxious about me! Goodness! how the wind is whipping up the fine sand of the dunes; it’s hovering like pale clouds over the Sugarloaf.”

This sand-fog spreading its storm-wings above the white hills that formed the background of Camp Morning-Glory looked ominous. She caught her breath; it tickled her throat, suddenly, with a feather of fear. She wished she had not come out so far.

“‘It’s a long, long way to yonder shore now!

But my heart’s right there!’”

she sang, all in a flutter, determined to keep her courage up, gazing shoreward toward the distant camp under whose sheltering roof her Camp Fire Sisters must be even now gathering for the midday meal.

“Whew! I must be getting into the really rough water, out toward the middle of the river. This—this is no joke!” she cried aloud wildly the next minute as a larger wave than any she had encountered yet not only boisterously showed its teeth, but seemed to fasten them cruelly in the dory, shaking the little boat until its planks creaked as she tried to turn it and drenching her from pompon to shoe-tip with spray.

“Never mind:

“‘When perils gather round,

All sense of danger’s drowned,

We despise it to a man!

We sing a little and laugh a little....’”

And even while she tried to sing and laugh the Peril was upon her.

A raving, squalling gust swooped out from that sand-fog swirling over the pale hills of the Sugarloaf; it seemed to mount in delirium to the lowering sky—from which all the sun-rays had fled to hide—and kick over a bucket of fresh water there. Then it roared as it shook its wet wings over the sea; its dripping tail struck the puny dory, just far enough out to be so struck with overwhelming force—and not all the strength of girl or boy, either, could stand or make headway against it.

“Oh-h! there goes my green Tam.” It was such a heart-broken wail, such a sob, that the wild, wet gust must have had the heart of a fiend to withstand it and sweep the green Tam O’Shanter, which depended for safety upon the clinging fit of its woven wool, mockingly away from the boat’s side.

It was beyond girl-nature not to make a frantic attempt to recover it—to row after it for a few battling strokes.

But those wheeling strokes were the death-knell of safety, of safety’s last chance.

The now terrified rower saw the pretty, warm head-gear, which she had bought out of the little pocket-money given her from time to time by Cousin Anne, dance upon the wave for a moment—a green blossom upon a white tendril of foam—just beyond her reach.

She did not see its soaked collapse; she lost sight of it, of everything without and within her, except a blinding aching terror, for, all in a moment, the dory and she were whirling at the heart of a water-spout.

The rain let loose by that last fierce gust drenched her sweater and short skirt.

A second gust blowing with equal ferocity offshore, and yet another, turned loose by the descending squall, spun her boat out toward the whirlpool heart of the river where the baby tide, like a lion’s whelp, fought the tiger gusts.

A reeling minute, the spray as well as the rain soaking and blinding her, the wind tearing loose her drenched hair, driving it across her face as if it would steal that, too, and whipping the breath out of her body, while the decorated oars wavered in her wet grasp that desperately tried to hold on to them, slipping between the racked row-locks which shook like chattering teeth!

Then those mad gusts rushed on to continue their fight with the incoming tide nearer to the mouth of the river, dragging the dory in their train, or brother-gusts, following, spun and drove it, really it mattered not which—nothing mattered now—for the fierce, wet onslaught of wind had taken, not a girl’s streaming hair, indeed, but something far more precious at the moment—one of her painted oars.

“Oh! what’s to become of me? I can’t row—I couldn’t, anyway! Will anybody see me from shore? Captain Andy might put off in a boat to save me, but he’s away up the river! The Boy Scouts! Their camp is far over among those other dunes, near the open sea, on the farther side of them!” Wildly Jessica’s gaze swept the pale beach and dunes lining the opposite shore of the river from the Sugarloaf as she drew in her second symbol-painted oar, now helpless, while the wind gnashed at its emblems and the foam hissed Sally’s flame.

Nowhere along the drab, rain-pelted line of beach, sands-pit and tall dune on either side of her was there a sign of a boat putting off—any indication that somebody saw her plight and would make an attempt, at least, to rescue her.

Indeed, along the whole coast of Massachusetts, north and south, no wilder or more lonely spot could be picked out than the mouth of this tidal river, left for nearly two-thirds of the year entirely to the harbor-seals and an occasional sportsman or professional gunner!

“Oh, I’ll be swept down—down—among the breakers on the bar!” The girl’s fingers interlocked convulsively as she cowered upon the middle thwart-seat of the boat, her eyes blindfolded by spray, her face working, discolored by fear, her wet knees groveling at the swollen roar of those breakers, heard even when they were farther off and invisible, among the crystalline sand-mounds of the Sugarloaf.

They crisped and curled and reared themselves through transparent sheets of rain like a pale wall between her and another world. Beyond them, even if by a miracle she should be swept past and through them alive, was the foamy vastness of the open sea where such frail things as a girl and a dory must surely be swallowed up in the tumult and tumble.

“Oh! I can’t be drowned. I can’t be drowned.” Frightened to a frenzy, her bent knees stiffened, she made a movement to stand up in the wildly rocking boat, to shout, scream, shriek for help to one shore, or both—shriek her loudest against the roar of wind, rain and spray.

The fatal impulse almost overcame her. She was stumbling, staggering to her feet, when like a wave from nowhere, flooding her agonized consciousness, came a memory of Captain Andy’s instructions to her and her Camp Fire Sisters, how to act if ever, by any most unlikely chance, they should be caught in such a peril.

“Lie flat,” he said. “Flat as a flounder! Slip down under the thwart-seats, make yourself one with the dory’s bottom. In such a ‘fearsome fix’ a girl who couldn’t keep a grip of herself would stand up and holler! A Camp Fire Girl, with presence of mind, would know enough to lie flat!”

Trembling, this Camp Fire Girl sank back upon the shaking thwart. She closed her eyelids tight, the bursting tears mingling with the spray behind them. And the roar of the breakers was lost in the voice of prayer crying passionately in her own young heart.

As on one July day, nearly two months before, she had prayed desperately for physical strength to carry the dripping, bowing weight of a deaf-and-dumb child out of a playground pool, so now she prayed for soul-strength to carry her torch of presence of mind through these swirling, drowning waters—for self-grip!

And self-control came to her.

Down she slipped, down, until her shuddering body pressed the boat’s bottom, until she lay on her back, flattened out under the dripping, shiny cross-seats.

And with the obedient action came a gleam of hope, like a play of lightning through the rain, for Captain Andy had given a reason for his advice: that the dory being flat-bottomed the waves by themselves would never capsize her; neither was it likely that she would ship enough water even among the breakers to swamp her; that a girl in her—even though carried out to sea—would stand a fair chance, if she could only “hold on to herself,” of being picked up when the squall was over.

So Morning-Glory, flattened to a flounder—and wet as ever was flounder-fish yet—“held on to herself” and prayed and thought of her Camp Fire Sisters.

“I wonder if they miss me—they must—and whether they see the boat drifting down to the breakers on the bar?” she questioned as the roar of those breakers swelled to a crash in her ears, as she could see the white wave-tops rising furiously on either side of the boat, plucking off their ghastly head-feathers of spray and tossing them in upon her like a watery coverlet, while she lay on her back in her cradle, the boat’s bottom.

That was just before a change came.

Yes, her Camp Fire Sisters and their Guardian did see the driven dory, were at this moment plucking their hearts out in anguish.

They were rending the streaming heavens with their cries, scouring the sodden Sugarloaf to find another boat and somebody strong to go after her while the dearest girl in their camp was being swept in a curtained drive of rain, upon a roaring bed of waves, out toward the mouth of the roar, the Bar, where the breakers curled in an ecstasy, piling white on white, pale as climbing death.

CHAPTER XIV

THE CASTAWAY

All of a sudden the girl so wildly cradled amid the breakers, with her wet, white face staring up from the boat’s bottom at the rain-washed, frowning sky, through sheets of spray, clear as rain, that swept over her, was vaguely conscious of some change in the forces that drove and whirled her.

She stopped bailing out the water that threatened to fill the little dory, sat up and peered over the edge of her dripping cradle.

Presence of mind grows like all other virtues. Just behind her head as she lay flat in the boat, stuck in a little wooden pocket of the dory, was what Captain Andy called a bailer-scoop, like a parlor coal-shovel, with no handle to speak of.

Jessica, after she got a grip on herself and did the hardest thing that a girl could do under the circumstances—to lie flat, outwardly calm, and let herself be spun and whirled in the trough of the sea, driven whither the wind chose to carry her—remembered its existence.

Slipping a hand behind her, she drew it out of the “rising” pocket in which it was stuck and began to ladle out the water on either side of her as one might ladle soup.

She soon realized the wisdom of Captain Andy’s advice, for while she lay “flat as a pancake” or a flounder, the buoyant, flat-bottomed dory rode the waves, bow on, side on, stern on, any way on, without capsizing; indeed, the little boat seemed to enjoy the wet dance.

And, now and again, strange as it may seem, the girl felt a queer thrill of enjoyment or excitement shoot through her fear, although she was very much ashamed of the unconscious foolhardiness which had got her into such a plight as this and was at intervals tortured by the thought of how others must be suffering, now, on her account, her fellow-campers on the Sugarloaf, Guardian and Camp Fire Girls.

There was one human companion who seemed to be near her, although long ago the seas had closed over him, just because her girlish imagination saw in him such an heroic figure; that was her great-grandfather.

It was when she thought of him that she felt the thrill of exhilaration; she was having an experience on a small scale of the brine-fighting perils amid which his life, as a sea-captain, had been passed and she grew more and more determined to meet it with a courage worthy of his great-grandchild.

So, when the dory mounted on the back of a white-headed comber and then slid down into a hollow, shipping a small torrent of water over its side, so that she lay in a pool, her short skirt, green, woolen sweater and uncovered hair soaked, she raised herself a little cautiously and bailed “for all she was worth,” knowing that the one imminent danger was that, between the united deluge of rain and wave, the plucky twelve-foot boat might fill and be swamped.

Thus she managed to hold drowning at bay until she became aware of the before-mentioned change in the forces at war with her; for one thing the rain grew lighter; there was a break in the heavy clouds above; the sou’westerly gusts seemed tired of roaring and chopping up the tidal waves; they sank to a lull like a beating of weary wings in the air about her and over the wild bar just ahead of her boat.

And then, all at once, the dory began upon a new figure in its watery dance to the tune of a new, piping whisper in the wind; it stood still, shuddering and rocking, the brave boat, as if afraid to go farther, then it sidled this way and that, waddled like a stranded duck, waltzed with a wave as partner, backed like a perverse donkey, cut about every caper that a rudderless rowboat could devise.

“I do believe the wind is shifting!” Jessica’s heart waltzed with the dory. “It’s changing round to the east—I’m sure of it—if it’s with the tide, instead of against it, I may be swept back up the river again.”

It was a dismaying prospect. Half an hour of such vagrant drifting as she had experienced was enough for a lifetime.

“Or I may—I may be swept ashore somewhere! It is hauling to the east; I’m certain of it!”

She knew something about the four winds and their direction; she had been keeping a scientific record of them for a month, together with the clouds, rain, fog or mist which, day by day, drifted over Camp Morning-Glory, in order to obtain a new honor-bead, a brown honor for “Camp Craft,” to string upon the leather thong about her neck, worn on ceremonial occasions.

If the wind blew from the east it certainly would not hurl her straight on until she struck the wild heart of the breakers on the bar.

What it would do with her she didn’t know. As she felt the dory spun and jostled in every direction, lifted high upon the white shoulder of one wave which crowed as it tossed it to another, she just sat and cowered under the cold lash of the spray, her heart-strings like bowstrings strained almost to snapping, with waiting for watery developments.

“That—that’s what Captain Andy calls the Neck—that sandy point jutting out there! Oh, if the boat would only, once, stop dancing and touch bottom!” she gasped aloud, stretching out her right arm toward that brown Neck of sand as if to encircle it. “Goody! I feel inside o’ me like a flooded attic, with everything, odds an’ ends of furniture, drifting round and bumping together.”

Her teeth clicked upon the gurgle of hysterical laughter—partly a bumped sole—that accompanied his soliloquy.

Another bump! A grounding shock! The dory was rubbing its nose against a long finger of sand slanting out from the Neck.

A receding surf-wave dragged it back. But the girl was on her feet like a wet flash and stumbling forward over the cross-seats. Sobbing, panting, she jumped over the rocking, receding bow right into the heavy, breaker-ridden surf dashing upon the Neck.

It was a bold splash that sent the wheeling sea-gulls circling off, amazed. And it was a bolder wade through the shallow fringes of surf and on, ploughing on, through the wet, oozing sands to gain a foothold upon some firmer sands of the brown Neck.

Once she turned and moaned a temporary farewell to the brave little dory, her watery cradle, that had stood so much. She knew enough about boats to be sure that no craft with a keel could have served her so well.

“Oh! I hate to leave you to be pounded some more,” she gasped aloud, in the wildness surrounding her. “But you—you’ll be picked up later!” addressing the buffeted boat that was now, again, revolving in a maelstrom. “The squall is pretty well over at last; the sun will be coming out in a few minutes.”

There was, indeed, a pale glint all over these drab and lonely sands (she had never been in so lonely a spot before) which seemed to herald such a friendly move on the sun’s part.

The rain had entirely ceased. The wind was piping in an intermittent whistle, shrill, but low, before beginning to blow vigorously from the east.

Between the roar of the surf-waves a silence fell in which she could hear her heart pounding as she dragged herself along in her wet clothing, the water swishing in her canvas shoes which sank deep into the wet sands at every step.

The silence seemed to whisper to her a word: Quicksands. She drew a lost gasp as she remembered how Captain Andy said that a portion of the Neck with its flanking sandspits, as well as parts of the wet beach toward which she was heavily plodding, were, at low water, “studdled” with them—the tide was still far out.

Terrified anew, she put down her hands and crept along, animal-like, on all fours, feeling the sodden sands ahead of her to try to find out whether they were firm or not—the sands that Captain Andy said could “fool one” with their traps.

Now and again they oozed like a wet sponge. With difficulty she dragged her feet out.

Would she ever reach a firm, fairly dry spot, real terra firma?

On, ploughing on, through the wet, oozing sands.

She straightened herself, looking ahead as, silently, she put the weary question to her utterly strange surroundings.

Courage! The beach for which she was heading was now only about thirty yards away, a narrow strip which, instinct told her, was generally bare even at high water. On the land side it sloped abruptly up into a row of sand-hills, the white dunes upon the opposite side of the river from the Sugarloaf Peninsula, which had long been distantly familiar to her eye, the dunes to some far peak of which Kenjo had signaled by means of a lantern and blazing broom.

With the memory of that fire-talk, of the signaled message: “Safe at Camp Morning-Glory,” hope blazed in her as blazed the broom-handle. If she could only reach the Boy Scouts’ Camp somewhere among these dunes, all her troubles would be over.

She felt a momentary qualm of vanity about presenting herself as such a wet and draggled castaway and put up a hand to her loose, streaming hair, to make sure it was still all there.

“Oh, what does it matter if I do look a sight after all I’ve been through; they won’t care!” she told herself impatiently. “Goodness! their camp must be nearer than I thought. What was tha-at? A—shout?”

A shout it might be or a savage roar or the bellow of an animal; it came from some point invisible behind the first line of sand-hills; at first it carried no words with it. Then, as the girl stood quaking, wondering what sort of shore she had been cast on, came a second distant cry freighted with a hoarse challenge.

“Hólà! Hólà!” it said. “Why forre you raise de Cain dere—dig, dig, dig—all time dig?”

“Well! this is the very time to dig—after the rain—if you want to find anything,” returned a second voice, without the same element of guttural wildness in it that characterized the first.

“They’re Boy Scouts, digging for treasure—the treasure that Kenjo was questioning the Kullibígan fortune-telling top about!”

Jessica leaped to the conclusion on the wings of an amazed and sudden peal of laughter that rocked her in her deep and spongy tracks.

“Who ever, ever heard of boys being so foolish?”

But never was folly so welcome! She had been about to drop warily upon all fours again, so as not to throw all her weight at once upon any treacherous patch of sand that she might come to. Now, she tucked her hair behind her ears and ploughed on boldly upright—no more harm could come to her, with those mirthful voices so near.

She wished she could see the vain diggers. She stared hard at the sand-hill from behind whose wind-scarred, rain-gullied rampart resounded their prospecting shouts.

She thought she must be catching the treasure-seeking contagion herself, or else that her drifting trip down-river to the bar had crazed her; she did actually see, under the glint of the lightening sky, a tiny something that flashed like silver in one of the wet, riven grooves of that sand-hill.

“Pshaw! it’s only a piece of glass or a bright shell,” she thought. “But it shines like a welcoming eye.”

She was eager, poor girlish castaway, to get near to anything that looked bright and welcoming amid the wild solitude around her and more eager still to arrive within easy hail of the infatuated diggers hidden from her by the sandy pyramid thatched with long, rain-wet beach-grass, just beginning to turn yellow.

Fixing her eyes upon the gold-green wave of that grass as it bowed to the careering gusts now lightly skipping out of the east, she unthinkingly set her left foot down in a sandy hollow. That left foot reported that the sand there was firm.

But the right had a different story to tell. As she heavily dragged that right foot out of its last footprint in which it had sunk more than ankle-deep, moved it forward in front of the left and let her weight come on it, there was a swishing, sucking, horrible sound in the sands beneath her.

With all her might she tried to pull the right foot out again—and couldn’t.

Neither could she dislodge the left one.

With her very first struggle she sank above her knees in the spongy sands that still hissed as they sucked in water far down beneath the treacherous surface.

“Help! Help! Oh-h, help! I’m—sinking!”

Her cry in its ghastly terror appealed to the sand-hills before her, to everything in heaven and on earth, as it rose shrilly above the roar of the surf on the Neck of the breakers upon the bar.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE QUICKSANDS’ GRIP

“That was a girl’s cry, Stack!” Kenjo Red—Kenjo the youthful signal-man of the blazing broom performance—lifted his red head that flamed like a beacon amid the wet drabness of the dunes and stopped digging with a small shovel in the side of a sand-mound. “A—a girl’s cry!” he repeated, startled.

“By George! it was. Somewhere the lace is screaming for help! A woman—or a girl—must be drowning or sinking—somewhere!” Miles Stackpole jumped to his feet as he spoke, a ludicrously sanded figure; he had almost tunneled right through one sand-hill in a fevered search for the buried treasure which, according to local tradition, had been hidden by some hardy pirate of old among these wild sand-dunes.

The mumbled tale of the aged hunter after one-legged hen-clams to the effect that, about a quarter of a century prior to this squally day, certain gold and silver coins, a handful of them, stamped like no coinage ever current in the United States, had been picked up on, or near, this very spot, had infected Stack with the gold-fever, with a get-rich-quick delirium that showed in his strained eyes as he held his breath for a moment, trying to decide from what quarter came that feminine cry.

Farther off a third figure stood at attention, too, listening with deep snorts, gulping breaths, like those of a woodland moose whose long ear is trained to catch a faint sound on the wind.

A strange, lithe figure this third in a rough blue shirt that showed a brown, sinewy throat, high cowhide boots that reached to the knee, but were as destitute of heels as a Camp Fire Girl’s moccasins, and a bright red knitted cap fitting down over his head, with a scarlet tassel that flirted with the young gust from the east as he stood on a low sand-hill, alert to catch another cry.

Hardly the interval of three seconds elapsed before it came, quivering with the same horrified, passionate terror as the first.

At its first appealing note Stack started off, dashing up the tunneled sand-hill with long springs—like the wild deer that so often traversed these lonely dunes—and down the sandy pyramid upon the other side, landing, breathless, upon the narrow strip of beach for which Jessica had been making. Thence he had a view of the broad, jutting point called the Neck and of its flanking sandspits, brown areas of sand on which the wild tide was slowly encroaching, and of something sticking up like a dark stump from a sinister patch of sands, not thirty yards off, the sinking figure of a girl in a dark sweater, already nearly buried to the waist.

Without a shade of hesitation Miles Stackpole, Eagle Scout, made a valiant dash for the wetter sands to reach that figure.

The agonized victim saw him coming. In a vague way she recognized him. He had no green and red stripes, no rich points of color, embroidered merit badges, upon his sleeve to-day, no swooping eagle upon his breast. But he was the same tanned, eighteen-year-old lad who had taken the heavy deaf-and-dumb child, swamped by a cargo of green apples, from her dripping arms.

“Keep quiet! Don’t move!” he screamed to her. “More you struggle, faster you sink! I’ll——”

The brave pledge of help was never given. At the moment when he was within twenty feet of her, Jessica, transfixed, saw him rock and sway, saw one side of him grow suddenly shorter, beheld him, with admirable presence of mind, thrust his left leg out straight along the surface of the sands instead of setting its foot down,, and throw his khaki-clad body over to the left side, thus preventing his weight from falling upon the right leg which had already sunk deep.

He was helpless, caught in a patch of watery quicksands worse, even, than that which imprisoned her, seeing that the sucking sands gave way under the first pressure and let the bottomless water ooze in down deep beneath him.

In that position he was such a strange, in any other circumstances would have been such a ludicrous, figure, swaying on one leg, with the other stuck out level, like a performing acrobat or a barn-yard goose, that a weird shriek of laughter, palsied by terror, rocked forth from the girl’s throat.

Since she had seen the advent of this friendly human being from the sand-hills her fear was not so distracted as it had been, at first, in the drifting boat; whereas, if she had only known it, lying in a pool of water in a dory’s bottom among breakers was safety itself compared with her present peril.

In another few seconds, however, she felt the very framework of her sinking body freeze and stiffen, her heart drop down—down—like a stone which the quicksands swallowed before they devoured the rest of her, for she saw that her would-be rescuer, caught by the leg, with his arms in their khaki sleeves helplessly flapping like brown wings, fingers clutching at air in a desperate attempt to preserve his acrobatic position, was as powerless to extricate himself as she was—and, inch by inch, she was silently sinking farther.

It was as if an invisible monster, with a painless knack, was eating her, bit by bit, alive.

She looked beyond the swaying figure, shrunken upon one side, and saw a bare red head; it seemed to her that in some different world, ages before, she had seen that same red head on a boy outlined in the light of an oily, blazing broom.

She shrieked to the head for help. But somebody fiendishly put a restraining hand upon the shoulder belonging to the head and thrust the boy’s figure back as it began to advance toward her.

And what was this third heartless being doing? He was running away from her. Running up and down, this way and that, in frantic search, upon the beach.

Then, all at once, she heard a shout from him, a sort of defiant bellow wild as the roar of the southwesterly squall in which her sufferings had begun, primitive as the thunder of the surf upon the bar:

“Hólà! Hol’ up! I come!”

Before that big shout the sucking sands seemed to tremble as death, at times, cowers before Life.

It was Life, invincible Life, that was bearing down upon her now, as her glazed eyes dimly saw, a figure instinct with life, courage and resource from its high boots to the red, bobbing thing that danced like flame about its head as it ran.

On his shoulder this strange being carried, like a feather, a ten-foot plank, a stout piece of driftage which in his wild hither and thither search he had picked up on the beach—the beach which, here and there, was starred with silvery driftwood, just as were the Sugarloaf dunes, much of it being traveled logs or planks, lumber-waifs, swept across the bay from the mouth of some Maine river.

The red-crested being with the long thing on his shoulder came abreast of the brown manly figure still balancing itself upon one leg in the quicksands,—made a movement as if to lay down the plank as a bridge toward it.

But the Eagle Scout, racked with the effort to keep his left leg stuck out level upon the yielding surface, while his right had sunk to the thigh, shrieked at him:

“Don’t mind me!... Her!”

And almost immediately thereupon Jessica felt two hoisting hands under her armpits which were only a few inches above the sandy surface now. A figure loomed beside her balancing itself upon the long plank laid down over the watery sands, that brine-whitened plank supporting it in the same way that long snow-shoes will support a man upon soft snow where, without them, he would sink to his neck.

And now began the desperate tug of war between Life and Death, the fight for a girl’s life!

Captain Andy had classed it as the one feat of rescue next to impossible, to save a victim more than half of whose body had sunk in a patch of quicksands. At another time he had spoken of those sands which sucked in water beneath the surface as “clinging like a cat,” a clawed wildcat, to anything on which they got a sucking hold.

He had told how they would grip an upright board partially sunk in them as in a mould, so that no strength of his could dislodge it.

But if the sands held on to their prey like a wildcat, the being upon the plank, with a ruddy tassel bobbing about his swarthy face, like a live flame flickering out from the fire in his body, had the fierce tenacity of a bulldog.

The froth came out upon his lip as he strained every sinew to raise the girl’s body an inch, to lift her by her armpits and shoulders.

The breath fairly shrieked through his nostrils and open mouth with his hoisting struggles, as if he were a derrick with a whining pulley inside him.

He was a woodsman. In his veins coursed the irresistible life of the woods which when the sap runs freely in the hidden roots of a young tree will make it cleave the solid rock in order to find daylight and grow, if every other outlet is denied it.

It was like cleaving the granite rock to draw this girl’s body, three-parts sunken, back to daylight—a terrible duel between sand and man—in which Jessica felt as if her arms were being torn quivering from their sockets.

But, glory to Life! the man won.

Little by little the quicksands loosened their sucking hold; inch by inch she was lifted until the sands had no further claim even upon her feet in their soaking canvas shoes.

Then, free, she was borne along the bridging plank in the arms which had rescued her and on over the sands to the very first firm spot, where she was thrown down almost violently in the rescuer’s hurry to get back with the plank to the aid of the Eagle Scout whose distorted body could not maintain its crooked position any longer, even for dear life’s sake.

Jessica felt a boyish hand helping her to her feet, presently, and guiding her along to the beach, she following blindly.

The boy’s head was very red, his face like chalk.

“Oh!” he said, and she recognized Kenjo’s voice. “Oh-h! if Toiney hadn’t been here, you’d have kept on going an’ going—you’d have sunk out o’ sight in five minutes. I—I couldn’t ha’ got out to you, after Stack got stuck!”

“‘Five minutes!’” The girl stopped and stared at him wildly, snatching her hand away. “Oh, I should think you’d know enough not to say a thing like that—to me!”

Her nerves gave way. She threw herself down on the drying beach and sobbed and sobbed as she had never cried even in childhood when, according to her Cousin Anne, she had the happiest child-disposition in the world, when she took her gaiety to bed with her, played a “flower game” with her mother at night and won the name of Morning-Glory.

The Morning-Glory had been through too sore a storm to lift its head for a while; it cowered, beaten and draggled upon its vine: in other words, Jessica, wet to the skin through her heavy sweater, sand-coated from her shoulders to her canvas toes, curled down upon the beach, her cold cheek pillowed upon its safe sands and utterly refused to be comforted.

In vain the two Boy Scouts assured her that she was all right now, that just as soon as she got over her fright they would take her to their Boy Scout Camp away off among the dunes or, better still, to another summer camp, not so distant, where there were women and she could get some dry clothes, because “we don’t want to rig a Camp Fire Girl up as a boy!” said Kenjo half-bashfully.

The overwrought girl paid no heed to them. At last as the nervous storm spent itself, she lifted her head a little and noticed sitting before her on the beach a figure in a blue shirt with a close-fitting red, tasseled cap upon its head and a long plank at its feet.

It was Toiney, her lithe, sinewy figure rescuer, whom she had heard Kenjo laud as being “queer stuff, but the stuff,” on the evening that Ken and his brother Scout who imagined himself poisoned had spent at the girls’ camp on the Sugarloaf.

Vaguely she remembered hearing Kenjo say that this Toiney was a French-Canadian with a little remote strain of Indian blood in him, who gave the Scouts lessons in wood-craft, trailing and tracking.

Presently Toiney glanced round at her and muttered consolingly in the funniest jumble of dialect French and broken English: “Tiens! ma fille, t’as pas besoin to cryee—engh?” Then he began to relieve his feelings by softly abusing the quicksands. “Ach, diable! she’s devil quicksan’,” he gurgled. “She’s bad, dam’ devil quicksan’!” the flicking of his red tassel lending color to the curses.

“Oh! don’t call the—the quicksands ‘she’!” Morning-Glory suddenly sat up, indignant on behalf of her sex, a little hysterical spasm of laughter contending with her sobs; because she was no pure, passionless flower, but a very human girl, it did her a rousing lot of good to hear the quicksands called bad names, after their treating her so meanly when the sea had cast her ashore among them.

“Engh?” Toiney grunted questioningly as he looked over his blue shoulder at her. “Sapré! w’at time I’ll see you sink in her, I’ll t’ink I see two, t’ree girl go down!”

“Oh! one was enough.” Jessica’s laugh pattered now between her chattering teeth, like sunlit hail through rain; she understood her rescuer’s description of the dazed horror in which he had sought up and down for a saving plank.

“How on earth did you come to be by yourself on that lonely part of the Neck—and so wet, too?” asked Miles Stackpole whose skin had not the golden hue at this minute that it showed when he worked for the resuscitation of little, deaf-and-dumb Rebecca; instead it betrayed a greenish tinge around the edges of his tan; three or four minutes of being trapped by one leg in wicked quicksands, knowing that the other limb, stretched out along their sucking surface, was very slowly sinking, too, that he would certainly be swallowed up alive if help did not come, and quickly, was no enviable experience.

And he understood the peril better than the girl-victim upon whose sand-plastered, draggled condition he now looked with chivalrous pity while he questioned her.

“I was out in a rowboat, alone, on the river when the squall came on; I lost an oar—I hope the other one is in the dory still; they were such pretty oars, all painted over on blades and handles with our Camp Fire symbols—at first I wanted to stand up in the boat and yell and yell—I was so frightened—for it was just frightfully rough; it seemed every minute as if the waves would roll the dory over, topsy-turvy. But I remembered that”—the girl’s voice was still broken and breathless—“that Captain Andy told us Camp Fire Girls that if one of us was ever caught in such a predicament and couldn’t row, the only hope was to flatten oneself to a flounder in the dory’s bottom. Well! I did—and a pretty wet flounder I was.”

“Then that sou’westerly squall swept the boat down the river, I suppose, before the wind shifted round to the east,” suggested Stack. “Were you cast ashore on the Neck?”

“I felt the dory’s bottom touch—then d’you suppose ’twould take me long to flounder out of her?” chuckled the girl. The Morning-Glory spirit, the little touch of humor, though draggled, was reviving in her.

“If it hadn’t been for hearing your voices among the dunes I might have got along all right, for Captain Andy had warned us about quicksands and said ‘they’d fool you,’ so I crept along on all fours, at first, after landing, teetering this way an’ that—you might have taken me for a seal if you’d seen me from a distance!” laughing shakily.

“But ’twas all so wild and lonely!” with a gasp. “I wanted to get where the voices were. And”—a sudden recollection came to her,—she dimpled mischievously—“I heard you shout to each other about digging—digging for buried treasure—Kenjo told us what the very old man who was hunting hen-clams said about strange coins being picked up near here.... I saw something bright, like silver, flashing after the rain, in the side of that sand-hill there—I thought I might get ahead of you....”

“Where was it?” Stack was up like an arrow; the gold-microbe working in him again as an antidote to the quicksands’ scare. “Can you show me where it was?”

He moistened his lips eagerly.

Morning-Glory, appealed to thus, dragged herself, with his help, to her feet; the eyes which were so like her great-grandfather’s in the old miniature searched gravely the side of the sand-pyramid.

“No, I can’t—see—it—now. Ye-es, I do, though!There it is!” She pointed triumphantly to a sparkle in one of the wind-hollowed grooves of the wet sand-hill.

“Where? Where? Yes, I see—I’m on to it now!”

Stack was ploughing up the sodden sand-peak, in his drab gaiters and sand-coated khaki, only a shade less quickly than he had crossed it a few minutes before on hearing the girl’s cry for help.

He reached the sandy niche of the “bright shell,” stooped and picked up something.

Those below saw him reel as he looked at it, as if he had a sunstroke.

The next minute dunes, beach, Neck, sands-pits—the very quicksands themselves—rang with a new cry, wild, amazed, whooping, triumphant.

“Oh-h! let’s go an’ see what it is—what he’s found!” gasped the girl who had seen the bright thing from afar.

“I guess you won’t find it easy climbing in those wet clothes! Here, let me help you!” volunteered Kenjo, aflame all over with a curiosity greater than Boy Scout had ever known before.

Up the wet sand-mound they plodded. Toiney, picking up the dwarf-stemmed pipe which he had thrown away in his search for a plank, arose and followed them.

“My eye! Stack’s gone clean daffy over something,” panted Kenjo.

Well might he gasp; Miles Stackpole, Eagle Scout, was yelling like a Comanche, dancing like a madman among the wet, plumy beach-grass that thatched the tall sand-mound.

“What is it? What have you found?” The foremost climbers, hand in hand, were stumbling, tripping—shrieking in a clamorous duet.

“Oh! look and see. Our fortune’s made! There must—must be more where this came from!”

That which the finder held out to his companions, that which the sou’westerly squall had unearthed, unsanded, rather, upon the side of this wet sand-dune was a large, antique silver coin of a size and stamp such as neither Boy Scouts nor Camp Fire Girl had ever seen before, even in their dreams of fairy-land.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SUN-DOLLAR

“My word! it’s stamped with a sunburst on one side, on the other with a ship.”

“Yes, and with a burning mountain an’ a horn thrown in!” Kenjo’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth with excitement as he replied to the shrieked comment from Miles.

“A sunburst and a ship!” Jessica clasped her hands wildly; she too began to foot it upon the sandy hillside, to dance, not lightly as a foam-chicken, but heavily as a very wet and draggled one on the skirts of the still dripping vegetation. “Oh, wasn’t it queer that I should be the one to find it, for our Camp Fire Girls’ symbol is the Sun—and I have always loved ships?” She did not mention the source of her affection for sailing ships in the glamor that surrounded the figure of her great-grandparent, as she looked eagerly, greedily at the large silver coin lying on Stack’s brown palm, winking up at a fellow-sunburst in the sky where fair weather was beginning to reassert itself.

A large, antique silver coin of a size and stamp such as neither Boy Scout nor Camp Fire Girl had ever seen before.

But the Eagle Scout showed no inclination to hand over to her the coin. He only began to gesticulate and explain the situation to Toiney whose tassel had, forthwith, a bobbing spasm.

“Houp-e-la! Ciel! he fin’ de dolla’—de silvare dolla’—l’argent blanc.” Now it was Toiney’s turn to waltz on the hillside, with his tassel. “He fin’ l’argent blanc! Ain’ he de smarty?” looking excitedly at Stack. “Ciel! I’ll go forre dig, too, me. Oh!

“Rond! Rond! Rond!

Petit pie pon ton!”

With this wild roundelay, which had no sane meaning whatever, upon his lip, Toiney turned his clay pipe which had about an inch and a half of stem—his petit boucane, as he called it—upside down between his lips and fell to clawing at the sands with his swarthy hands as if he would root the very heart out of this rich sand-hill.

That was the digging signal for the other three!

The Camp Fire Girl forgot that she was wet through and that others must be anxious about her. Stack forgot that he had ever roosted on one leg in quicksands. Kenjo forgot that he was Kenjo and possessed a red head. One and all they clawed with their fingers, dug and scraped with heels and toes, until the sodden sand-hill looked as if a regiment of roosters, each with an attendant flock of hens, had pecked and wallowed there for a week.

“There must—must be more where this coin came from!” Such was their battle-cry; now and again one or other of them sounded it.

Now and again, too, each one had a lucid interval of demanding to see the sunburst coin anew, to examine afresh its stamp and half-obliterated inscription.

Miles—otherwise Stack—would then take it from his vest pocket and turn it over on his palm; he did not want it to go out of his keeping, which Jessica privately thought was very mean of him, as she claimed the distinction of seeing it first and had paid dearly for that initial glimpse, too.

“And I persuaded myself it was only a piece of glass or a bright shell!” she exclaimed from time to time, having the feminine trick of reverting to mistakes. “Can you make out the date on it?” she demanded very practically after one such reversion.

“No, I can’t!” Stack examined the coin more critically than he had yet taken the time to do in his frantic eagerness to find more. “The last figures look like a 3 and an 8. But it might be 1638 or 1838—date’s partly worn off. Houp-la! wasn’t it somewhere about 1638 that Captain Kidd was flourishing? My history’s hazy. Gee—if we’re on the track of some of his buried treasure when other people have been digging for ages and consulting all sorts of fake fortune-tellers and never even got upon the trail of a hoard!”

“We consulted the Indian top.” Kenjo’s voice had a thrill of semi-superstition.

“Yes, but the Kullibígan couldn’t make up its mind which of us would dig up a fortune from the sands; you came in on it, so did I, so did Arline—that’s nothing!” Thus Jessica laughed him down. “Wait a minute!” She caught at Miles’s arm. “I want to see if I can make out more of the inscription before you put it—the coin—back into your pocket again. You needn’t be so afraid that some one is going to snap it out of your hand!” haughtily.

Thus shamed, Stack suspended digging for an age-long interval of a minute and held the coin on lingering exhibition, right and obverse sides.

“Oh! isn’t it a dandy sunburst, with stars above it?” So Jessica gloated over its ancient stamp. “I can partly make out the inscription over the sunburst, too: it’s Repub—then something else, and then Peruana. I can read that clearly, but not the rest.”

“Underneath the letters look like CUZCO,” spelled out Kenjo. “And—oh! don’t be stingy, Stack; let’s look at it a minute longer—and in the middle of the sunburst there are a few black dots that seem to be meant for the two eyes, the nose and mouth of a face—a queer sun-face! Oh! Ha! Ha!” Ken’s boyish laugh rang out with a fire that matched his hair.

“Now for the reverse side: the ship is on that,” pleaded Jessica hungrily.

“Yes, and the volcano and the horn—an’ something like a castle!” muttered Miles. “But we’re wasting time!” The coin vanished again into his pocket. “It’s me for digging, I tell you—digging hard! If we can find some more—a hoard of them—our fortune’s made.... I’d be glad to have my fortune made for me,” he continued, presently, out of the heart of a sand-spout; “I enter ‘Tech’ in the fall and for the next four years I’ll have to work all vacation-time in order to push myself through—help pay college expenses. Oh, goody, if this coin and others would only lend me a boost!”

“I need a ‘boost,’ as you call it, too; I’ll have to earn my own living when I graduate from high school, with no one to help me,” quavered Jessica, shivering all over in her wetness, beginning to realize that, back of frenzied excitement, she was very clammy and exhausted. “And—and I can’t earn my living in the way I’d like to do unless I get hold of some money!” She fell to scratching like a wet hen.

Stack looked at her through the sand-squall which he was raising; this was the second time that he had seen her and on both occasions her clothing looked as if she had been dragged through a river, but he decided that if she were ever dry she’d be pretty, and if, after he entered Tech, he was duly elected to his chosen fraternity, she should be his guest during Frat week when the freshmen entertained their friends.

Here he came out of fairy-land, fortune-land, for a moment, to hear the distant, strong chug, chug of a motor-boat upon the river above the Neck.

“If I get rich out of this, I’m going to have a motorcycle,” burst forth Kenjo, that distant chug shaping his dream.

“Rond! Rond! Rond!”

chanted Toiney; he did not open his heart like the young people, but as he incessantly clawed and dug, he had dreams, pathetic in their grandeur, about swaggering back to a rural spot near Quebec, where his old mother still clattered round in wooden shoes, as one who had made “beeg fortune on United State’.”

Never before were such silvery air-castles constructed out of so little metal as that contained in one tarnished coin—a coin of a goodly size, however, larger than a fifty-cent piece, almost as big as an American dollar.

Suddenly through the glittering halls of those castles in the air resounded an earthly shout that, momentarily, shattered them; it was accompanied by a swish of oars; the chug, chug of the power-boat had ceased.

“Ahoy there! For heaven’s sake! have you all turned into a passel of hens?” It was Captain Andy’s amazed shout as he landed from his rowboat on a point of the sands which experience had taught him to be safe. “I’m after one hen, to take her back with me!” pointing to the scratching Jessica. “A nice scare she’s given us all—I found the dory bobbing up the river. An’ by gracious! my heart’s been in my mouth since. What in thunder are you diggin’ like that for? Mad as March hares, all of you!”

“Humph! Perhaps we’re not so crazy as you think. Look at that!” With a lordly air Stack drew out the coin and held it forth in its silver beauty, stained and worn by long burial, for the captain to see, as he drew near. “What d’you think of our madness now?” He gulped and gasped.

“Why! Why! It’s one of those old sun-dollars!” Captain Andy, receiving it upon his own palm and turning it over (Stack was not afraid to trust it to him), looked pleased, highly pleased, and interested, but not wildly carried away as befitted one who held the first-fruit of a fortune in his hand.

“One of those old Peruvian sun-dollars from the wreck that took place here between sixty an’ seventy years ago, when I was a small boy!” he exclaimed again. “It’s a handsome coin, all right! But if you dig till all’s blue, I’ll warrant you’ll never find another of ’em, or if you should, ’twould be only one at a time an’ far between; the river isn’t giving back enough of them together to make anybody rich; an’ the river only got one bag of those coins when the old brig went to pieces!”

“Sun-dollar! Wreck! Brig! What wreck?” The challenging cries were hurled at him by two stiffening, defiant boys and one clucking, scratching girl. “Come to think of it, that old clam-hunter did mumble something about a wreck!” added Stack in crestfallen reflection.

“Yes, it’s goin’ on for seventy years ago, now, that a sailing vessel, a brig from South Peru, which had many bags of these an’ other Peruvian coins, both gold an’ silver, aboard—was rich in specie, as they say—was wrecked in the bay, outside the bar. The gale drove her up the river; I’ve often heard about it; my father was one o’ the men who put off in rowboats to rescue the crew an’ they did save ’em all, though ’twas night, and saved most o’ the money-bags, too. But one bag of coins fell into the river, when they were lowering it in the dark into a boat. Folks dragged the channel with nets for it afterward, but that river-channel,” pointing out toward the middle of the heaving tide where his motor-boat rocked, moored to a stump-buoy, “is so ‘studdled’ up with hollows an’ gullies that you never can recover anything from it that it doesn’t give up of its own accord, when wind and tide make it.”

Captain Andy looked from the sunburst coin to the three young faces—sorry at heart that with his cruel crowbar of truth he must shatter their castles—and at Toiney digging still, digging patiently on.

“Storm-wind and tide did make the river-bed give up a few of those coins, three or four, maybe; they were picked up near this spot by a man I know a long time after the wreck took place. Now! you’ve found another, but I guess that’s all you’ll find if you dig till Doomsday. This is a pretty souvenir, though! Who’s to keep it?” Captain Andy turned the coin over in his hand and looked at Jessica who had hopelessly given up scratching and was ready to accompany him to the rowboat, thence out to the waiting motor-boat and from there, in a quick run, back to the Sugarloaf, her Camp Fire Sisters and Camp Morning-Glory.

“I saw it first,” proclaimed the girl, eagerly eyeing the sun-dollar.

“I picked it up,” said the boy, with greed in his claiming eye—in spite of the fact that he was eighteen years old and an Eagle Scout.

He had risked his life for the girl by dashing out among the quicksands at her cry. He had come very near giving it by sinking altogether when he refused to be rescued first. And yet he was unwilling that she should have the treasure trove, the sunburst coin. He took it from Captain Andy’s hand, from Captain Andy whose code of chivalry, now and always, might be summed up in three words: “Skirts go ahead;” in land speech, “Ladies have the preference!”

“I don’t care! He can keep it if he wants to!”

Jessica tossed her head with its loose tangle of wet hair.

So indignant was she at this greed for possession, this covetousness on the part of an Eagle Scout, or any other Scout, that she marched off down to the rowboat, ahead of Captain Andy, without thinking of saying good-bye to Toiney, her rescuer, and without as much as casting a glance at the miserly Miles who had played the acrobat on one leg amid quicksands for her sake!

“Well! if he isn’t the Meanest Thing!” So spoke Betty Ayres as she twirled an egg-beater upon the following morning before a glowing stove in the kitchen of Camp Morning-Glory. “Eagle Scout, indeed! I’d like to whip him instead of these yolks.”

“Yes, keeping that beautiful, big old silver coin after you had seen it first! And he seemed so—so different when he worked over that dumb child to bring her to!” flamed Sally.

“Oh! you never can tell about boys; you never can understand them,” sighed Arline, airing the time-worn complaint of each sex about the other.

“I understand a lot about them; I’ve three brothers and I cured the Astronomer,” maintained Penelope sturdily. “I doubt if Tenderfoot Tommy would have acted like that.”

“A letter for somebody! A Scout gave it to me to give to you!” Captain Andy—otherwise “Standing Tall,” ducked his head through the broad screen door and handed a thick envelope to Jessica, who looked pale, red-eyed and snuffled a little, but, beyond that, was none the worse for yesterday’s experiences. “The chap who gave it to me got up early an’ rowed over from the opposite dunes. There’s something in it, I think!” added Menokigábo, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Girls! it’s the coin—the silver sunburst coin!” Jessica tore open the envelope; inside were some hastily written lines, without any conventional beginning:

“The sun-dollar belongs to you. You saw it first. Sorry I behaved like a chump yesterday! I have put your initials in a little monogram under the sunburst and got in the date of this year, too, when it was found, in tiny figures at the side.

“I found out what the name-letters were from Kenjo who says that he heard your name in full on the evening that he signaled to us from your camp.

“A Scout is honorable!

“Miles.”

“Well—if he isn’t splendid!”

“He must be a fine fellow!”

“We want to meet him.”

“So you will when the Camp Fire Girls of the Twin-Light Tribe give that party at the hotel on the mainland!”

Captain Andy withdrew, smiling to himself at the new feminine flutter, the abrupt change of tune.

“But if that isn’t just like a boy”—this from Betty—“a boy’s one idea of owning anything is to carve initials upon it! I believe he’d scratch them on the pearly gates of heaven if he could only find his way there and set up a claim for himself or somebody else!”

“Never mind! Isn’t it a beautiful old sunburst coin?” Jessica winked away a bright drop of moisture as she passed the sun-dollar round for inspection. “It really was quite too awfully good of him to give it up, wasn’t it?” with a little catch of delight in her throat.

“I believe that, in his place, I’d have been tempted to think that possession is nine points of the law,” laughed Olive. “But for a Camp Fire Girl belonging to a society whose general symbol is the sun, that silver sunburst coin is the loveliest souvenir of her camping-out time—so appropriate!”

“So appropriate,” echoed its lucky possessor, smiling like the gayest morning-glory that ever fluttered in a morning gust which awoke it to the sun, “so appropriate that do you know what I’m going to do, girls?” rising on ecstatic tiptoe.

“I know!” nodded fair-haired Betty with the air of a cynic. “You’re thinking of getting Captain Andy to bore a little hole in it and wearing it round your neck for a while. ’Fess, now!”

“Ha! Betty means to insinuate that if a boy’s one idea of owning a thing is to carve a name or initials upon it, a girl’s first thought is to use it to make her look more ‘fetching’—eh?” Sally pointed an accusing finger at Betty. “I wouldn’t be sarcastic if I were you, ‘Holly’!”

“But that’s just what I did think of doing with it,” owned Morning-Glory, subsiding to the soles of her feet again. “With the exception of my Fire Maker’s bracelet,” holding up her rounded right arm, “and my fagot ring, I have little or no jewelry, as the rest of you girls have. If it was only forty or fifty years ago, now, I could wear that beautiful old miniature of my great-grandfather—it’s set in real gold. As I can’t, I’d like to wear this,” gloating over the large silver disc from which Miles had removed the stain of long burial ere he finely engraved or, rather, scratched the girl-owner’s monogram upon it with the sharpest blade of his penknife so skilfully that it really did not mar by incongruity the quaint beauty of the radiating sunburst, having the queer old sun-face, like a microscopic mask in the center.

“Well, I’d wear it as a pendant if I wanted to! I’ve got a thin little silver chain, Jess, that I’ll lend you while we’re here,” volunteered Arline. “Pouf!” blowing scorn on Betty’s sarcastic scruples. “Why! it’s hardly any bigger than the silver medals which some of the high school girls wear in the spring in honor of their boy friends, in athletics, who have won them on the track team or in the high jump or some other event.”

“To be sure! People will only think that I have a friend who came in second in the mile or half-mile at ‘interscholastics.’” Morning-Glory fluttered gaily again upon the highest tendril of joy’s vine. “I paid dearly for being the first to see the old coin,” with a momentary shudder. “Now I may have the pleasure of wearing it to that party which the Twin-Light Tribe is going to give at which we’ll play old-fashioned games—dance old-fashioned dances—all the girls who don’t belong to our ‘Morning-Glory Tribe’ will just keep guessing and guessing as to what sort of new-fangled athletic medal it is!”

CHAPTER XVII

A MONOGRAM ON A COIN

But no Camp Fire Girl or Boy Scout, either, who assembled at the invitation of the Twin-Light Tribe at an hotel upon the mainland of the Massachusetts North Shore, indulged in any wild or random guesses about the large, silver disc, curiously stamped with a sunburst, which rose and fell with the excited breathing of one happy girl of the Morning-Glory Tribe when she put in an appearance at the long-expected party.

The Twin-Light Tribe was an enthusiastic band of Camp Fire Girls who had taken their name from the twin lights, the two golden, saving eyes of a lighthouse guarding their shore.

Being eager for the obtaining of new honor-beads to string upon the leather thongs about their girlish necks, they had arranged to give a large party at which the girls and boys would be equal in number, where all the youthful guests should take part in at least two old-fashioned dances—the boys being instructed on the spur of the moment by the girls if they could not skilfully foot it already in the old-time figures of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “Chorus Jig,” or any two more stately American dances popular long ago.

For this achievement every participating member of the Twin-Light Tribe was to receive a red, white, and blue honor for patriotism, a distinction which might have been extended to the father of one of them who put the ballroom of the seaside hotel of which he was manager at the service of the Camp Fire Girls for a certain evening and who lent generous aid, too, along the lines of refreshments.

The large room was radiant with electric bulbs disguised as Chinese and Japanese lanterns which pointed many a rainbowed finger of light at the silver sun-dollar gleaming upon Jessica’s breast when she entered the hall. But nobody, neither the benevolent manager nor the guests, all—with the exception of Scoutmasters and Camp Fire Guardians—under twenty, was ignorant by this time of the details of its strange discovery.

Two of the Boy Scouts, going for milk to a farmhouse beyond the dunes where their camp was situated, upon the evening of the most terrible and exciting day in the life of one Camp Fire Girl, Jessica Dee Holley, had told about the finding of the old coin in the wet side of a sand-hill.

The farmer from whom they procured their milk reported the news at the nearest post-office when he drove round with his full cans next morning. The postmaster telephoned it to a newspaper reporter. Inside of thirty-six hours practically the whole of Wessex County, Massachusetts, knew that another of the old sun-stamped Peruvian pesos, lost from the South American brig wrecked off the coast nearly three-quarters of a century before, had been found by two Boy Scouts and by a girl who had been swept down the tidal river in a squall in an opposite direction to that taken by the drifting brig which the furious gale of long ago had driven in from the bay, over the bar, to break to pieces in the river.

Even the few resident guests still staying on at the hotel, now that September had set in, had heard or read the story, too, touched up by a reporter’s imagination, and were anxious to meet the heroine of the drifting dory accident who to-night wore the beautiful old peso, or dollar, on a silver chain around her neck.

“There’s a man out there in the hotel corridor who says he’s interested in old coins. I was talking to him just now; he’s like all the rest; he wants to see the sun-dollar,” remarked Miles Stackpole, Eagle Scout, to the coin’s possessor, looking down at the silver sunburst dangling upon the breast of her white dress.

At this patriotic party the Scouts, by request, wore their uniform. Miles was resplendent with all his merit badges below the service stripes upon his right sleeve; the American Eagle in silver swooped from the red, white and blue ribbon hanging from the silver bar upon his left breast. On his collar was embroidered in dull gold B. S. A.: Boy Scouts of America; together with the number of the troop to which he belonged.

Other lads from his camp numbering over twenty, including Kenjo and the fat Astronomer, looked debonair and smart in their khaki uniforms, too.

But the Camp Fire Girls had, for to-night, abandoned their leather-fringed khaki; they were not in ceremonial dress; each wore a conventional party-frock or the fairest apology for one which she happened to have brought with her to camp, the girlish costumes ranging widely from Olive Deering’s frilled yellow silk in which she looked like a chrysanthemum, the first of the season, to Sally’s white skirt and orange smock, minus the saucy Tam—wherein she was again the little Baltimore oriole of the city playground—and to Penelope’s white duck skirt and “fancy” waist which the girls had between them fashioned for her, having ruled out her old “black and white warbler” attire with the faded girdle.

“There! the piano is just striking up ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ now,” went on Miles after an interval during which Jessica had expressed a happy willingness that the hotel guest who was interested in venerable coins should have his desire gratified and examine the sun-dollar. “You and I are to dance this together in the leading set. After it’s over, we’ll put the sunburst coin on exhibition.”

“Pop Goes the Weasel! Dear me! the last time I danced it was on a public playground with that poor little deaf-and-dumb foreign child whom, between us, we rescued from drowning in the shallow bathing-pool,” murmured Morning-Glory, in fancy seeing little Rebecca’s big-eyed face under the Chinese lantern above her. “Ha! there’s Captain Andy looking in at us, with the hotel guests; he paid me the ‘dandiest’ compliment that day, so the girls told me”—laughing merrily—“he said I was so light on my feet that I danced like a Mother Carey chicken on a foam hill; what d’you think of that?”

“Well, I bet you do! I can tell better, though, after the Weasel has popped,” laughed Stack, as this leading couple in the leading set stood with arms arched for a gay little dancer (it happened to be orchard Kitty who had been duly instructed beforehand in the popping figures) to pass beneath.

Never did a weasel pop to a finish more triumphantly; never did the large handsomely decorated room where fashionable seashore visitors held revel during the summer echo and reëcho to happier laughter, more joyous dance-cries; never certainly did its decorative panels smile upon a company so fraught with promise for the future of their native land as this assemblage of Scouts in khaki and their Camp Fire Sisters.

“Now, when you’ve rested, we’ll exhibit the peso, the Peruvian sun-dollar, to all who want to see it!” suggested Miles when the dance was over and he was fanning his partner with his broad hat, to be worn later when the Boy Scouts were to give an exhibition, go through some drilling and signaling “stunts” for the entertainment of their hostesses.

“I’m rested now, but don’t show it off to too many people at once,” pleaded the girl shyly. “If they’re hotel guests bring them one by one or two at a time—I hate facing a crowd!”

Stack divined that she did not want to run the gauntlet of many questions about her experiences on the day when she had been a castaway on the Neck and espied the coin-waif, from the wreck of long ago, flashing from its wet niche in a sand-hill.

“All right!” he agreed. “We’ll hold a reception for the sun’s face on the sun-dollar, though if I was the sun I’d boycott Peru forever—never shine on ’em again—for caricaturing me like that! I’ll usher guests in one by one; ladies first, then that lawyer-chap to whom I was speaking a while ago who’s interested in coins.” Miles nodded toward a tall, thin man lounging just inside the doorway of the room.

“Did he tell you he was a lawyer?”

“Not in so many words, but he said that he was only resting at this hotel for a day or two and that, then, he was going on to old Newburyport on the Merrimac River, thirty or forty roundabout miles from here, on a quest that was not exactly legal business; he did not say what sort of search it was, but why should he mention that it wasn’t a legal matter if he wasn’t side-stepping his own line, eh?” beamed Miles, fanning more vehemently with his Scout’s hat.

“Newburyport! Old Newburyport—the only Newburyport in the United States!” sighed the girl. “I have been wanting all summer long to go there; my great-gran’father lived there once; at least, he used to sail out of Newburyport on his long voyages to the West Indies; he went all round the world sometimes.”

This was the gayest evening of her life, the most utterly happy one since she had lost her parents, yet as young Stackpole went off to summon the lawyer who was “side-stepping his own legal line” by taking up with some matter outside it, she felt as if her heart shrank until it was the size of a peanut, squeezed by poverty’s iron hand; she had not been able even to afford the train fare to Newburyport, a town in the same State, without imposing on Cousin Anne.

“Never mind, it won’t always be so; I’ll soon be independent, earning money in some way, even among a storm of typewriters! And I’ll always have the silver sunburst to remind me of this happy summer and that, as a Camp Fire Girl, I’m a daughter of the Sun,” she murmured to herself even as her hand went up to the back of her neck to unfasten Arline’s silver chain, in order that the stranger might examine her coin-pendant closely.

“It certainly is a most beautiful specimen of Peruvian coinage,” that stranger was exclaiming presently after Miles had duly introduced him to its owner. “Do you mind if I take it over there to the farther end of the room where there are some electric lights that aren’t dressed up like Chinese mandarins, so’s to see it better?”

“Not at all!” they agreed and followed him like happy children, Miles and Jessica.

Several of Jessica’s Camp Fire Sisters of the Morning-Glory Tribe, hovering around their sweet-faced Guardian, also migrated to that far end of the long room where there were no swinging, red-and-yellow, mandarin lights; so did two or three of the Scouts, with Captain Andy, looming massive in this hall of revelry, at their heels.

“Yes, I don’t think these South Peruvian pesos were issued after 1838,” remarked the lawyer, his words dropping clearly into the heart of the lull between the music and dances. “I can make out the inscription above the sun-stamp fairly well: ‘Repub Sud Peruana,’ and that grotesque little sun-face—like a microscopic All-hallowe’en face—at the heart of the sunburst. But—but what is this fresh engraving, if you can call it so, beneath it?”

“My initials in a tiny monogram,” laughed Jessica. “He put them there”—glancing up at Miles—“in honor of my seeing it first.”

“What Philistinism! What youthful arrogance!” gasped the lawyer half under his breath. “Why, it spoils the ancient stamp!” angrily.

“Not so! I made too slick a job of it for that!” maintained the eighteen-year-old Scout, with a chuckle, not caring in the least that an elderly lawyer who was “side-stepping his own job” should denounce his act as that of a spoiling Philistine; nobody else of the group or throng, now augmented by almost every young person in the room, exactly caught the stranger’s words and meaning, with the exception of the Camp Fire Guardian.

“I’ll wager no silversmith could have done it better with the tool I had, the fine blade of my penknife,” boasted Stack, peering down at the minute, intertwined letters under the sunburst; “you see they were easy letters to weave into a monogram: J. D. H.: Jessica Dee Holley!”

“Dee! Dee! Is your middle name Dee?” The irate lawyer’s expression changed as if a flash of lightning from the electric bulbs overhead struck him. “Dee!” he reiterated. “It’s not a common surname; I have, as yet, only got upon the track of a few families of that name. And I can’t—I can’t go about asking every one I meet what his or her middle name is, if it happens to begin with D.” He looked appealingly at Jessica, shifting the old coin upon his wrinkled palm.

“No, of course not.” Morning-Glory did not know whether to laugh or hide; she thought he was slightly deranged and edged a little closer to Miles.

“I’m going on to Newburyport on the Merrimac River in a day or two, to see whether I can, in person, get upon the trail of any Dees whose ancestors lived there,” went on the man who was on a “side-stepping” quest.

“Well! you needn’t go any farther,” proclaimed Stack excitedly, his Boy Scout’s trained detective-instinct leading him to believe that there was “something in the wind.” “Do some pumping—I mean questioning—here first! Miss Holley’s middle name is Dee and she has just told me that her great-grandfather—on her mother’s side, I suppose—came from Newburyport. He was a sea-captain.”

“A sea-captain!” More lightning struck the lawyer, so it seemed; he made a few prancing, forward steps. “Was he drowned?”

“Yes, in the year 1840, so Mother told me.” There was the germ of a sob in Jessica’s answer; she did not take kindly to abrupt questioning about this heroic, handsome ancestor whose memory she idolized.

“What was his name, his full name—may I ask?”

“Captain Josiah Flint Dee, sir.” The great-grandchild spoke the name proudly, although she was beginning to tremble and shiver, she didn’t know why; was it possible that the ancestor whose dimpled chin, blue eyes and live smile—preserved on ivory all these years—had been the living companion of her loneliest, sorrowfulest hours, was really—really—coming alive, at last, in some deed of his, to bless her?

Not for an instant was she so disloyal to the gallant shoulders and the fine head in the old miniature as to imagine that any deed of his could shame her.

So she threw back her own brown head and looked the queer questioner, who was still holding her sun-dollar upon his palm, straight in the eye as she added:

“Yes, my great-grandfather’s name is written in a small Bible that I have, which was printed very long ago, in which an s is formed like an f,” with a catch of the breath. “My grandfather’s name is written on the fly-leaf, too, and my grandmother’s and my mother’s.”

“All named Dee! Well! Well! And I might never have found that out, might never have thought of questioning you—for, of course, I can’t go about asking people what their middle names are—if it hadn’t been for your monogram scratched on this old coin.”

“‘Youthful arrogance,’ eh?” quoted Miles with a wink, flinging the words back in the lawyer’s teeth. “I call it a heaven-sent inspiration if there’s anything back of your questions, sir!” The Eagle Scout darted an eagle look, but a respectful one at the same time, at the elderly legal stranger.

“If there is any purpose back of ’em, I say go ahead an’ drive it—no more bushwhacking—you’re upsetting the little girl and holding up the dancing—spoiling the party!” threw in Captain Andy with a paternal look at Jessica who was now leaning against her Camp Fire Guardian.

“Why! of course there’s a purpose back of them,” replied the lawyer with dignity. “I am in possession of knowledge that may be of benefit to this young lady to whom I was so accidentally introduced through looking at the coin she found. But in order to determine beyond doubt whether—or not—she really is heir to a trifling old legacy, I must ask a few more questions.”

“Heir! Legacy! Gee!” Tenderfoot Tommy Orr licked his lips as he hovered upon the skirts of the ring which had formed around Jessica, his short, fat neck thrust forward, his gaze slanted inquiringly upward at one and another of the now thoroughly excited group. “Legacy! Gee whiz! That sounds slick,” puffed the Astronomer.

“I’m sure I’m on the right track at last,” murmured the lawyer, mentally squinting backward at certain letters of inquiry he had written during the past few weeks to people whose surname was Dee in various parts of the country, which had brought no satisfactory results. “But there may be other heirs or heiresses beside this young lady—other descendants of Captain Josiah Dee. Are you an only child?” he inquired of Jessica.

“Yes. I had a little brother who died when he was a baby.”

“And your mother—she was an only child, too?”

“Yes. And my grandfather was an only son; at least he was the only one to grow up; he ran away from home, that is, went away soon after he was twenty on hearing a rumor of gold being found in California; that was while my great-grandfather was away on the voyage from which he never came back; he was lost in a storm with his ship The Wave Queen.”

“The Wave Queen! Ha! We’re getting on.” The lawyer rubbed his palms together upon the old sunburst coin as if he were petting it.

“Your grandfather was a gold-hunter, eh? Did he own the little old Bible you speak of with the names on the fly-leaf? That would come in handy as evidence.”

“Yes; my mother said that was the only thing he took away with him, beside his outfit, when he started for California, that and a little miniature painted on ivory of his father; both had belonged to his mother—my great-gran’mother.” Jessica’s voice faltered a little as she leaned against the Guardian of the Camp Fire, Miss Dewey; lawyers did seem to do no end of bushwhacking, beating about the bush; at the next leveled question, however, she straightened up; her eyes shone.

“Did you ever hear of your great-grandfather’s saving the life of a Boston merchant or petty trader, named Orlando Norton, at sea?”

“No, but I know he saved a whole lot—of—lives,” with a proud quiver in the voice.

“Well! I may come to the point at last and tell you that on one of his voyages he did save the life of Orlando Norton whom he found clinging to a spar in mid-ocean, after the passenger ship on which he was aboard was wrecked. And this Orlando Norton was grateful; he wasn’t a rich man, but he left Captain Josiah Dee a small legacy at the time of his death which occurred while your great-grandfather was away on his last voyage from which he never came back. So the legacy went unclaimed. The Judge of Probate ordered it to be deposited in a Boston savings bank until some claimant turned up. None has ever done so—efforts were made at the time to reach your grandfather, but they failed—so the sum has lain there for nearly seventy-five years, swelling and multiplying at compound interest, doubling itself every twenty-five years or so.”

Dead silence as the legal tones ceased; among the girls not a hair ribbon stirred! As for the Boy Scouts, only the Astronomer’s padded gasps, sounding as if they emanated from a throat lined with cotton-wool, made themselves heard; others were holding their breath.

“Great guns! I’d like to ask how this matter of a legacy came to be hauled forward again after such a long time had elapsed?” Captain Andy suddenly thrust a massive shoulder into the midst of the group.

“Simply because of late years there has been a law obliging all banks to publish, at intervals, a list of their unclaimed deposits in leading newspapers. Probably if Miss Jessica Dee Holley and her parents weren’t living in New England, they never saw that list, but I did, and not having much legal business on hand, I thought I’d manufacture a little by trying to look up heirs for two or three of the oldest legacies still unclaimed.” Thus the lawyer explained his “side-stepping quest.” He was silent for a moment, gathering breath for a dramatic climax; then he stretched out his right arm and put the old sunburst coin, with its dangling chain, back in Jessica’s hand.

“Here is your sun-dollar, my dear,” he said in fatherly tones; “it has brought you a very strange piece of good fortune; through your initials on the coin—which irritated me at first—I was led to question you; and, now, I haven’t the slightest hesitation in saying that I am sure you are the heiress to that old legacy—a debt of gratitude to your great-grandfather for saving a life—and that, with my assistance, you can claim it at any time.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh-h!” These bomb-like exclamations, fired off into the stillness of the great room with its decorated panels and portly, gaudy lanterns, were for a minute the only sound to be heard. “Don’t faint—Jessica!” pleaded the Astronomer then.

“How much is the legacy?” Miles spoke huskily.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Well! money looked bigger in those days, I suppose, and the merchant was a comparatively poor man,” he prefaced; “the original legacy was only three hundred dollars.”

“Three hundred! He didn’t put a big price on his life.” Miles kicked vehemently at a chair.

Every one’s elated countenance fell—with the exception of the new-found heiress who was thinking proudly of that deed of her great-grandfather—three hundred dollars: it was better than nothing! But it was a very small windfall which had fallen among them with a very big thud and they resented the noise it made.

“Ah! but you forget”—a smile crept over the lawyer’s face—“you forget that the legacy has lain in that savings bank at compound interest, compounding and compounding for nearly seventy-five years; I can’t compute exactly its present amount at a moment’s notice, but I know that it is in the neighborhood of twenty-five hundred dollars; that isn’t such a bad little nest-egg for pin-money, eh,” smiling at Jessica’s white face, “even when my small fee is deducted?”

Silence again.

“Twenty-five hundred!” The shriek came from Sesooā. With a spring Sally flung herself upon the “modest heiress,” flung her arms about her. “Oh! Jessica,” she cried. “Jessica, darling! you can go to a school of art—to a dozen schools of art, if you want to, now!” wildly. “She thought she must earn her living as a stenographer in a business office!” Sally flashed round upon the company, a smocked flame. “And—and she didn’t want to—though I’d like it well enough—because she loves color and she has the makings in her of being an artist, a designer like her father, painting beautiful windows with saints’ heads—and things! She says girls do that, sometimes, now. An’ she wants to—but she must have an education—and to design a Camp Fire Girls’ colored window, some day, if ever we girls get a grand National Building!”

Sally had soared to a hill of imagination from which she crowed upon the listeners like a veritable flame-bird, mocking coherency.

“Oh! Jessica, why didn’t you tell me that?” whispered Olive Deering.

“I couldn’t—Olive lovey!”

The heiress in a modest way looked very white and trembling. “I always felt—I always felt that my great-grandfather lived in some way!” she breathed. Tears oozed out between her eyelids.

It was a crucial moment. Then Tenderfoot Tommy Orr grew splendid. With the rolling gait of a very fat boy, chin thrust out, he ploughed through the circle and seized Morning-Glory’s hand in both of his.

“I say! you just come an’ have some fruit punch,” he commanded, waving his Scout’s hat toward a far-away table. “Waiter has just brought it in! Legacies an’ stuff are all right, but I’m—parched!” in the same tone that he had proclaimed how he was poisoned.... “I’m too short for you to take my arm, but you can hang on tight to my hand!” he added in Jessica’s ear, as he steered her for the distant table.

“You’re a good Scout, Tommy,” applauded Miles huskily. “Goodness! to think that one of us, in a way, did dig up a fortune from the sands after all—or something like it!”

“Miles!” The Guardian of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire seized young Stackpole’s arm as if he were her son or as if she had known him all her life. “Miles—that’s your name, isn’t it—for pity’s sake! get hold of the hotel pianist who has been playing for the dances; ask her—ask her”—breathlessly—“to strike up Portland Fancy or the Virginia Reel, something, anything lively, and set the girls to dancing.”

“Yes, let them work it off through their feet; if not we’ll have a scene!... Jiminy twisters! I want to make a scene myself!” added Miles Stackpole, Eagle Scout, stopping to whoop in the act of obediently crossing the room. “I want to wrestle somebody: I want to get out-of-doors and yell and yell—and yell—and kick over the Man in the Moon!”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TORCH BEARER

“That light which has been given to me

I desire to pass undimmed to others!”

The voice which repeated this high desire, the purest the human heart can know, was Jessica’s.

It was a voice which thrilled and trembled just as it had done over six months before when, by the lakeside Council Fire, Morning-Glory had given her girlish pledge to tend, even as her fathers and fathers’ fathers had tended, the sacred heart-fire of humanity—kernel of its hearth fire, too—the love of man for man, the love of man for God.

That she had been tending it in lowly places where, otherwise, that flame would have been a feeble flicker, where in one case it would have been hidden under the heavy bushel of a deaf ear and silent tongue in a child’s head, was shown by the presence of four little girls whom she had made happy once a week for three months, thus meeting one of the requirements for gaining the highest rank among Camp Fire Girls.

This group of children, aged about eight or nine years, was known by the beautiful name of a Bluebird Nest, called after the azure harbinger-bird whose appearance in spring, as a great naturalist says, is the signal for sky and earth to meet, as their hues do in his plumage, in other words a call for them to cease their winter strife and prepare for summer.

And these little human Bluebirds, now in the early spring of life, were preparing for the summer of being Camp Fire Girls; that is three of them were; the fourth, the deaf-and-dumb Rebecca of the city playground, was so handicapped and retarded by her affliction that nobody could prophesy what her future would be; suffice it that, at present, she was happy!

There was a sparkle in those patient, purple eyes of hers which held no ray when the girls first saw her on the public playground, lacking a little partner in the folk-dance. Of all the lights which the new Torch Bearer, Jessica, whose Camp Fire name was Morning-Glory, might pass on undimmed to others from the happy glow within herself and from the lamp of those Ideals which, like a wise virgin of the parable, she kept trimmed and burning, none would be more heavenly than that torch first kindled in a dumb lamb’s heart.

“But, do you know, I don’t believe that little ’Becca is going to be dumb always,” remarked Mŭnkwŏn, Arline, arching the future with her rainbow symbol, when the ceremony of initiating one member of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire into the highest rank was over, when the girls were seated in a semicircle on the floor, before a blazing Council Fire. “You may remember,” addressing the crescent company, “how the playground teacher said that, once, when the children were all yelling ‘Swing! Swing!’ at the tops of their voices—and those foreign children can scream both in their own language and every other—Rebecca seemed to catch some sound or vibration and said ‘swing’ plainly, too!”

“Oh! even if she remains deaf, she can, no doubt, be taught to speak, later on, by means of the oral method or lip-reading,” suggested Gheezies, the Guardian of the Camp Fire.

“Yes,” Arline spoke passionately, “this evening, before the signal came for us to march in, and take our places round the Council Fire, I knelt beside her for five minutes saying ‘Glory’ over and over, forming it big, with my lips close to her face; I want that to be the first word she says, if she ever does begin to speak, in honor of Welatáwesit, our Morning-Glory,” with a moist glance at Jessica, “who rescued her from drowning and kept the torch of life in her little body!”

“Yes, and who first:

“Called the Bluebird through her window

To sing its song within that dumb heart,”

quoted Gheezies. “Does Mŭnkwŏn remember the blank verse effusion in which she celebrated that playground incident?”

“Of course I do! But nobody has yet got sufficient poetic steam up”—Arline laughed—“as to write a really dramatic poem telling how she was saved from drowning in two feet and a half of water by a Camp Fire Girl and Eagle Scout.”

“Oh! we’ll leave that to the future airy flights of Kask, the Blue Heron,” chimed in Betty, smiling at Olive who sat facing her in this Council Fire crescent, grouped indoors upon a January night, around a ruddy hearth. “Blue Heron will surely try out her poetic pin-feathers, some day; it was the fear of losing them, I think, of being reduced to hissing instead of hooting, like that poor captive owl, which first induced her to become a Camp Fire Girl.”

“That may be—partly!” laughed Olive. “But all last summer while we were camping on those white, fairy Sugarloaf dunes, I was too much taken up with exercising my wings in other directions to think about little rhyming flights. And”—gasping slightly—“since we’ve been back in the city I’ve had plenty to do, too—with my father’s marriage and all that!”

Blue Heron, as she gazed into the fire, at the red velvet of its blazing, hickory back-log, was thinking dreamily of the pure wing-power for which she had prayed on that evening, more than six months before, when she sat, as a spectator, at a lakeside Council Fire, that she might soar into likeness to her mother. Of late, with a few human tumbles, she had been winging upward on pinions of tact and unselfishness that brooded gracefully over the crisis in her home life when her father gave a new mistress to the household where she had hoped to reign in that mother’s stead. Thus she helped Sybil to adjust herself, too.

In consequence, Olive already loved her stepmother whom, prior to the marriage, she hardly knew, all the more because the new wife evinced a cordial desire that Cousin Anne and Jessica should remain members of the family even after the latter graduated from high school, that is if the education in art which she was to pay for out of her wonderfully discovered legacy could be carried on in the city of Clevedon.

And what was the new Torch Bearer, who had been initiated as a Fire Maker a little over six months before, thinking of as she, too, gazed into the velvety red of blazing hickory and birch logs, topped by a blue crest of rippling flame, a delicate fluorescence?

Chiefly she, Morning-Glory, was dwelling on that old, saving deed of her great-grandfather’s which had arisen out of the past to bless her (to justify the feeling of her lonely hours that, somehow, in some way, he lived to companion her), to enable her to follow in her father’s footsteps, by and by, as a designer of stained-glass glories, this bringing her in feeling nearer to him, too.

Already Jessica, or Welatáwesit, wore upon her fringed sleeve a Shuta National honor (Shuta meaning to create) awarded her by the highest council of the Camp Fire Girls for her design—crudely imperfect as yet—for a beautiful stained-glass window, representing the figure and ideals of a Camp Fire Girl. A window which, at some future golden date, might filter and glorify the daylight as it streamed into a National Temple dedicated to American girlhood, to its desire to preserve a romantic savor of its predecessor upon this soil, the Indian girlhood, whose poetic folk-lore, dress and customs seemed in danger of vanishing until the Camp Fire Girl stepped upon the scene to unite in her captivating person the poetry of the past, the progress of the present!

From the honor emblem upon her khaki sleeve Jessica’s young gaze wandered back to her beaded leather necklace and to the large silver coin, stamped with a sunburst which she still, upon certain occasions, wore round her neck, the ancient sun-dollar with her monogram minutely engraved beneath the radiating rays, which had been so instrumental in linking her with her ancestor’s life-saving deed.

“Won’t it go beautifully with your Torch Bearer’s pin which has a rising sun as part of the design on it?” suggested Penelope who, to-night, as she dreamed by the Council Fire in ceremonial dress which had a “poetizing” effect on her, as Sally said, looked transformed from the Penelope of the restless gate, creating a tingling atmosphere about her that, according to Betty, could be felt a mile off.

“Yes, I feel like a true child of the Sun, wearing both of them! And isn’t it a strange coincidence that the old coin found by a Camp Fire Girl—or first spied by her—should be stamped with a sunburst?” Morning-Glory fingered the sun-dollar, silver-gilt in the firelight. “I have been reading up about Peruvian coinage,” she went on reflectively, “and I find that the sunburst stamp with those funny little black dots representing a grotesque sun-face in the center is a relic of the sun-worship of the old Incas, former inhabitants of Peru, who carved the sun’s face on everything.”

“I’ll never forget that lawyer’s expression when it dawned on him that the date of this year and a girl’s initials on the sun-dollar, which at first he regarded as an insult to its stately inscription and ancient stamp, were actually proving a clue for him to find an heir to one of the old legacies for which he was looking up claimants.” This amused remark came from Gheezies, Guardian of the Fire, who sat on the right of the blazing logs. “I’m sure that Morning-Glory will go down to history in that part of the country as the heroine in the case of the most remarkable legacy that ever a girl fell heir to!”

“Yes, and think of the wild excitement of the Twin-Light Tribe over having such a dramatic scene take place at their party!” gasped Ruth Marley, whose Camp Fire name signified Music and who had the G clef in her head-band. “Why! their Christmas letter to us was full of it. I’d like to hear that sisterly epistle again.”

“So would I! And I! And I! Also the letter from Captain Andy—our ‘Standing Tall’—in which he speaks of the present he’s sending us!” came in tones of laughter from one and another of the fourteen beaded maidens seated round the Council Fire, while the four Bluebirds, nestling near, played happily with their dolls, which Morning-Glory, in her one afternoon a week spent with them in the room of a Children’s Friend Society, had taught them how to dress.

“Oh! Captain Andy used to feel badly because we had no bows and arrows last summer (we’ll have to practice archery before we ever camp out with him again) to go with our Indian dress and not even a harpoon, as he used to say jokingly, in case ‘a school of blackfish came in,’” laughed Sesooā. “And so he’s sending us a spear, the sword of a swordfish which he killed himself and polished up—I mean he polished the sword and polished off the poor fish. He says we can harpoon hearts with it!”

“It will go well with our painted ‘buffalo robe’ bearing the figure of a Camp Fire Girl; we’ll hang it on the wall, then it will make our room like an Indian lodge, with hunting weapons,” romanced Morning-Glory, gazing round the pretty, firelit meeting-room in the Guardian’s house, dedicated to the use of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire which bore none but the slenderest resemblance to a red man’s lodge, with its pretty window-curtains made, embroidered and hung by the girls’ own hands, its leather table-cover, sofa pillows and Record Book bound in sheepskin.

Into almost every article in that room, with the bare exception of the furniture, had been woven the personality of some member of the Morning-Glory Tribe who met there, who had helped to make or decorate it—that girlish tribe being likewise responsible for keeping the room swept, garnished and in order.

“There—there is another letter which I want to read to you, as it’s connected with our camping days—and with the worst adventure I ever had in my life!” went on Jessica breathlessly, after a minute or two. “Or, rather, I think I’ll let Gheezies, our Guardian, read it!” The girl’s face was “swept,” now, by a variety of expressions ranging from a sunny gust of amusement to the dark semblance of a shudder wafted by memory across its buoyant brightness.

Gheezies, holding a candle near to the page, smudged, blurred and strangely covered with a scrawl of handwriting, read slowly and with difficulty, mentally supplying punctuation and other conventional marks:

“Chère Mad’selle, dear Frien’:

“It gif me grate plaisir to rote you dese line. Yes’day w’en I go on top o’ post-office w’at you t’ink I see, heem littel box. Ciel! I am so glad I feel lak’ cry. Ach! la jolie montre—de silvare—I haf not de word—I am so fool....”

Here the queer scrawl broke off indefinitely.

Underneath the letter was continued, as follows, in a fine bold hand over several pages:

“Toiney sent me this ‘specimen scribble’ in which he has tried to thank you for the silver watch you sent him in memory of the day when he pulled you out of a patch of horrible quicksands while I revolved on one leg, unable to get to you.

“I’m so glad you remembered him with it, at Christmas—the watch came out of the legacy, I suppose—and you may bet he was tickled when he went ‘on top of post-office,’ meaning into it, and was presented with the registered box! I don’t know how he got so far with his letter, some one must have helped him, for I didn’t think he knew enough English to say Boo! straight....”

Here the reading was interrupted by a gasp that was almost a sob from Jessica; straight English had not been necessary to translate the fire of the woodsman’s arm which forced the “devil quicksands” to relax their sucking grip upon her body.

“He sent me the letter, asking me to fix it up with lots of paint—my expression, of course—excuse slang!...”

“That means all the nice speeches you can think of!” interjected Penelope explanatorily.

“So here goes; I enclose ’dese line’ from him and add my comments—and sundries!

“I have been plugging away for dear life at Tech and working through the Christmas holidays. It means a stiff grind for the next four years if I’m to take my B.C.E. degree—Bachelor of Civil Engineering—at the end of that time.

“Have you decided yet in what School of Design you’re going to learn how to paint Saints’ heads on glass? More power to the legacy!

“Gracious! when I think of how that ripping sou’westerly squall which swept you in the dory on to the Neck made the sand-hill ‘cough up’ that old sun-dollar and of all that it brought you, I want to yell and yell, like a madman. I’ll wager that Kenjo does, too! And didn’t the Astronomer play up at the party when he thought you were going to faint or cry? Good for Tenderfoot Tommy!

“Thank you for the help which you Camp Fire Girls are giving us by selling tickets for our big Boy Scout Rally which takes place this month!

“Hoping to see you soon,

“Your friend,

Miles Stackpole.”

“That’s a nice letter from the Eagle Scout,” commented Gheezies, handing the sheets back to Morning-Glory, “and Toiney’s mongrel scrawl is worth keeping. Now for the best letter of all which I have kept for the last on this our first meeting after Christmas when, as we agreed, we are talking over our camping experiences, remembering absent friends and dwelling on the messages they sent us! This is from Kitty—Kitty Sill—our Camp Fire Sister!” The Guardian jubilantly waved an envelope. “In it she tells of how she, little chicken-hearted, orchard Kitty, who——”

“Who, as Captain Andy used to say, was ‘shy as a long-billed curlew’!” interjected Olive in low, laughing tones. “I beg your pardon, Gheezies, for interrupting!”

“Yes, how ‘shy’ Kitty has been instrumental in starting another Camp Fire group among the girls of her scattered neighborhood and has induced their school-teacher to act as Guardian. Now, what do you suppose they’re going to call this new Camp Fire?”

“’Twouldn’t be Kitty if it wasn’t original,” chuckled Morning-Glory. “It’s altogether too bad that they can’t enroll Mary-Jane Peg!”

“They’ve decided to call it the Five-Smoke Camp Fire after the old farmhouse in which Kitty lives because that house is still sometimes described in their locality as the house of the big chimney or the farm of the five smokes owing, no doubt, to the fact that in early days after the house was built about two hundred years ago, Kitty’s ancestors could afford five fires going together, while other families of the settlers had only one.”

“The ‘Five-Smoke Camp Fire’? Isn’t it a great name? A dandy name!” burst from one and another of the crescent-group applaudingly.

“It is. And as there’s no smoke without fire, let us hope that it will kindle a five-pointed blaze in the world in honor of Wohelo: Work, Health, Love. Now, I’ll read you Kitty’s letter!

“You see, she says that they, the members of this new Camp Fire circle, have just received their Charter from Headquarters,” added the Guardian softly when the reading was finished. “It seems to me that it would draw us near to them, to our Camp Fire Sisters everywhere, if we were to unite in repeating the beautiful words of that Charter which hangs, framed, upon our wall.”

“Yes! Oh, yes! Let us!” One girlish face after another was uplifted to a glint of framed glass above them through which the leaping flame of their Council Fire picked out, here and there, a colored capital.

Like a rolling wave that begins with a murmur and rises to a mountain, their voices broke in unison upon the shores of the fire island:

“This is your Charter. Make it live,
And find here hidden within its page
The Deeper Meaning—
The right to join the Circle’s Sisterhood,

Your Hearts to beat in touch and tune with theirs;

The right to kindle at their Flaming Fire
Your own, and see within its Glow
The Spirit-Flame of Work, Love-ordered....”

Higher soared the crest of the Council Fire, illumining many a fair young face, unlocking with its key of flame the circle of individual hearts until, awed, it penetrated even to that hidden Light of Life in which all were one, while there broke upon the illumination like a holy challenge the crowning right for which the Camp Fire stands:

“The Right to live the Exultant Life
That grows akin to Nature’s Throbbing Heart;
The Right to dream, and dreaming,
Know the Deep, Primal Things,
The Soul of Beauty and the Heart of Truth.”

THE END

From Keel to Kite

How Oakley Rose Became a Naval Architect

By ISABEL HORNIBROOK

12mo Cloth Illustrated $1.50

The story of an up-to-date boy who achieves his ambition against a headwind of difficulty. Son of a Gloucester “skipper” lost on Georges, he is brought up by his grandfather, and inheriting a keen love of vessels, desires to become a naval architect. Obliged to leave high school, he goes to work in an Essex shipyard, hoping to obtain a practical knowledge of vessels. He studies naval architecture there in rainy intervals when shipbuilding is impossible; takes a fishing trip to Georges, and another, full of exciting adventure, to the halibut fletching grounds off the coast of Labrador.

“Boys who delight in adventure, briskly told, will surely find entertainment and profit in reading this wholesome and lively story.”—New York Examiner.

Camp and Trail

By ISABEL HORNIBROOK

12mo Cloth Illustrated $1.50

A story for boys and girls who delight in adventure. Two English boys with their friend, an American collegian, go into the woods of Maine to hunt deer and moose. But they never kill wantonly or for mere sport—only for food or in self-defence. They study the ways of the great game of the woods, and breathe in health, inspiration and noble thoughts with the odor of the pines and the air of lake and mountain.

For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON

JEAN CABOT SERIES
By GERTRUDE FISHER SCOTT
Illustrated by Arthur O. Scott
12mo Cloth
Price, Net, $1.00 each Postpaid, $1.10

JEAN CABOT AT ASHTON

Here is the “real thing” in a girl’s college story. Older authors can invent situations and supply excellently written general delineations of character, but all lack the vital touch of this work of a bright young recent graduate of a well-known college for women, who has lost none of the enthusiasm felt as a student. Every activity of a popular girl’s first year is woven into a narrative, photographic in its description of a life that calls into play most attractive qualities, while at the same time severely testing both character and ability.

JEAN CABOT IN THE BRITISH ISLES

This is a college story, although dealing with a summer vacation, and full of college spirit. It begins with a Yale-Harvard boat race at New London, but soon Jean and her room-mate sail for Great Britain under the chaperonage of Miss Hooper, a favorite member of the faculty at Ashton College. Their trip is full of the delight that comes to the traveler first seeing the countries forming “our old home.”

JEAN CABOT IN CAP AND GOWN

Jean Cabot is a superb young woman, physically and mentally, but thoroughly human and thus favored with many warm friendships. Her final year at Ashton College is the culmination of a course in which study, sport and exercise, and social matters have been well balanced.

JEAN CABOT AT THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE SHUTTERS

Such a group as Jean and her most intimate friends could not scatter at once, as do most college companions after graduation, and six of them under the chaperonage of a married older graduate and member of the same sorority spend a most eventful summer in a historic farm-house in Maine.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. Boston

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIRLS OF THE MORNING-GLORY CAMP FIRE ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- GIRLS OF THE MORNING-GLORY CAMP FIRE
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE