.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 53200
   :PG.Title: The Camp Fire Girls by the Blue Lagoon
   :PG.Released: 2016-10-02
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Margaret Vandercook
   :DC.Title: The Camp Fire Girls by the Blue Lagoon
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1921
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS BY THE BLUE LAGOON
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      Cover art

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      Gill Rejoined Him and Was Attempting to Fix Her Hair

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      THE
      CAMP FIRE GIRLS
      BY
      THE BLUE LAGOON

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      BY
      MARGARET VANDERCOOK

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      Author of "The Ranch Girls" Series, "The Red
      Cross Girls" Series, etc.

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      ILLUSTRATED

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      PHILADELPHIA
      THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
      PUBLISHERS

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      Copyright 1921, by
      THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY

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      STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

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      List of Titles in the Order of their Publication

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

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      PRINTED IN THE \U. \S. \A.

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   CONTENTS

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I.  `The City of Towers`_
II.  `The Generations`_
III.  `Future Plans`_
IV.  `Natural History`_
V.  `Renunciation`_
VI.  `The Box Party`_
VII.  `The Apartment`_
VIII.  `The Enigma`_
IX.  `The House by the Blue Lagoon`_
X.  `One Night`_
XI.  `The Same Evening`_
XII.  `The Camp Fire`_
XIII.  `The Following Day`_
XIV.  `An Interview`_
XV.  `Twisted Coils`_
XVI.  `The Disappearance`_
XVII.  `The Return`_
XVIII.  `The Eternal Way`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`Gill Rejoined Him and Was Attempting to Fix Her Hair`_ . . . Frontispiece

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`"My Dear Mother, What a Sentimentalist You Are"`_

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`"I Wonder if I Shall Ever Make
You Understand How Dull You
Are on One Particular Subject"`_

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`"I Was Never So Disappointed in
Any Human Being in My Life,
Sally, As I Am in You"`_

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.. _`THE CITY OF TOWERS`:

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   The Camp Fire Girls by
   the Blue Lagoon

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE CITY OF TOWERS

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One afternoon in October two girls
were walking down Fifth Avenue.
They were strangers in New York.
One of them, a tall, fair girl, dressed in a
dark blue tailor suit, furs, and a close-fitting
velvet hat, was several years older than her
companion, who was small with dark eyes,
a sallow skin and an oddly unconventional
appearance which seemed to accord with
her costume, a brown serge cape, a gown of
the same material and an old-fashioned
poke bonnet of flowered silk.

In another hour the shops would close
and the crowds come pouring forth into
the streets.

"Are you tired, Elce?  I had forgotten
you were never in New York save the one
day when you landed.  The hotel is only a
few blocks further on, yet perhaps it might
have been wiser not to have attempted to
walk from the station."

Bettina Graham, who was carrying a
small suitcase, made an effort to slacken
her pace, her companion with quicker,
shorter steps keeping close beside her.

"No, I am not tired," she answered, "it
is only the noise that confuses me.  I never
could have imagined anything like it.  Yet
I think I once dreamed of a city like this, of
tall towers and streets that are ravines
between high cliffs, with the same bright
blue sky overhead."

The older girl smiled.

"You are a fanciful person, but dreaming
in New York is a dangerous pastime,
where one must watch every foot of the way."

The afternoon was warm and brilliant,
with only a faint suggestion of frost, the
shop windows filled with brilliant displays,
the streets crowded with automobiles.

Bettina's expression changed, her eyes
shone, her lips parted slightly as the color
swept into her cheeks.

"New York is fascinating, isn't it?  One
forgets how fascinating even when one has
been away only a short time.  I do hope I
may be able to spend the winter here!
But for you, Elce, who have lived almost
your entire life in the country, it must be a
wholly new experience.  Well, we are both
runaways this afternoon!

"There is Mrs. Burton's hotel just around
the corner of the next block.  At this hour,
between five and six o'clock, she must be
at home."

Unconsciously Bettina began to move
more rapidly, with the appearance of a
runner whose goal is nearly in sight.

"I'll send up our cards and she will see
us at once.  I am sorry our train was two
hours late.  I presume I ought to have
telegraphed.  One does not enjoy the idea
of being alone in New York."  Bettina
laughed.  "Don't be troubled, there is not
the faintest chance of such a disaster.  Now
that our Camp Fire guardian has returned to
the stage and her play become one of the
greatest successes of the winter, I suppose
she does have to excuse herself to a good
many persons, yet she will scarcely decline
to see us."

Not talking to her companion so much
as to herself, Bettina at the same time was
studying the faces of the passers-by, divided
between her interest in New York, the
contagion of the brilliant autumn day and her
undoubted nervousness over some personal
problem.

Reaching the desired hotel, after an
instant's hesitation, the two girls entered,
Bettina feeling an unaccustomed awkwardness
and embarrassment.  Notwithstanding
the fact that she had traveled many miles in
the past few years in her own country and
in Europe, this was the first occasion when
she had been without a chaperon.

Declining to surrender her suitcase, Bettina
asked the clerk to announce her arrival
to Mr. and Mrs. Richard Burton.  In a
measure she felt prepared to have her
request refused, as Mrs. Burton would
probably wish to be excused to visitors at
this hour.  She meant to be insistent, even
if necessary to telephone her own name.

The clerk shook his head.

"Sorry, miss, but Captain and Mrs. Burton
are not in; they left this hotel four
or five days ago and took an apartment of
their own."

"You don't mean they are no longer
living here?"

To her own ears Bettina's voice sounded
more startled than it should.  "Then will
you be kind enough to give me their new
address, as I wish to find them at once."

She thought she saw a faint look of
sympathy and regret on the clerk's face.

"Sorry again, but Captain Burton left
strict orders their new address was to be
given to no one.  They do not wish to see
strangers.  Their friends they intend
notifying themselves.  Perhaps you want
Mrs. Burton to help you to go on the stage, so
many young women call on her for this
purpose and she has been giving up so much
time to them, Captain Burton does not
wish her to be disturbed in the future."

Bettina flushed and frowned.

"No, I am not looking for work and I
am not a stranger to Mrs. Burton.  She
and Captain Burton would wish you to tell
me where they are living.  Mrs. Burton is
a kind of relative, or at least she is an
intimate friend."

The clerk smiled.

"That is what everyone says.  I regret
not being able to oblige you, but orders are
orders."

As if Bettina were no longer demanding
his attention he turned to some one who
had been waiting and was now inquiring
for a room.

Wishing to discuss a question of great
importance to her own happiness with her
Camp Fire guardian, Bettina had run away
from home.  The act was not premeditated.
When she made her sudden decision her
mother and father chanced to be spending
a few days away from Washington.  Nor
would they have objected to her journey,
save to prefer that she have an older
companion than the little English girl, Elce,
originally known as Chitty, whom the Camp
Fire girls had known during the summer in
"Merrie England."

Bettina had not seen her Camp Fire
guardian in six months, not since their
parting at Half Moon Lake.  Of late, not once,
but many times her mother had announced
that she would like the benefit of Polly
Burton's advice on the question which
divided them.

So Bettina suddenly had set out on her
pilgrimage to New York with this end in
view.  To arrive unheralded and not find
Mrs. Burton, to be compelled to spend the
night with Elce as her only companion
would but deepen her mother's impression
that she possessed neither the judgment nor
experience necessary for the independence
she desired.

Nothing would be gained by looking
inside her pocket book.  She knew exactly
the amount of money it contained.

After paying for her own and Elce's
tickets and an expensive lunch on the train
she had counted it carefully.  Seven dollars
and forty cents then had seemed a sufficient
amount when she expected to be with her
Camp Fire guardian in a few hours; it was
woefully insufficient to meet the expenses
of two persons in New York.

There was one friend to whom she might
appeal, but this would make her present
difficulty with her mother the greater.
Surely there must be some method of
discovering her Camp Fire guardian, if only
she were not so stupid that she had no idea
what to do next.  In any case she would
not remain longer in the lobby of the hotel
and she declined to question the clerk a
third time.  In the street she would receive
fresh inspiration.

She and Elce left the hotel.

Outdoors no new idea immediately
occurred to her.  It seemed strange that
her mother had not mentioned Mrs. Burton's
change of address: as they never
failed to write each other once a week,
undoubtedly she must know.  Then
Bettina recalled the fact that she and her
mother had had but little to say to each
other of late, since no matter upon what
subject they started to talk, always the
conversation veered to the difference
between them.

"Don't be worried, dear, I shall be able
to think what to do in a few moments,"
Bettina remarked, with more courage than
conviction.  "It was ridiculous for the hotel
management to decline to give me Tante's
change of address.  She and Captain
Burton will both be annoyed; the clerk should
have known they might wish some exception
to be made to their order."

Elce nodded, regretting that she was
unable to offer any advice and yet perfectly
content to abide by Bettina's judgment.
In a strange and unfamiliar world, Bettina
was her one anchor.  Sent to a boarding
school, from loneliness and longing for the
outdoors, Elce had fallen ill, and unable
to continue at school, Bettina's home had
been her refuge.

At present the younger girl was finding it
difficult to keep her attention concentrated
upon the object of their quest, the city
noises so excited and confused her.  With
her strange musical gift she long had been
able to reproduce the country sounds, the
singing of certain birds, the wind in the
trees, now she seemed faintly aware of some
hidden harmony amid the thousand discords
of the city streets.

Again her companion brought her back
from her day dreaming.

"I believe I will look in the telephone
book, as it is just possible Tante may have
kept her former telephone number and had
it transferred to her new address.  If you
do not mind waiting, here is a public
telephone booth."

Five minutes later with her expression a
little more cheerful, Bettina rejoined the
younger girl.

"I have discovered an apartment in Fifth
Avenue which may be Tante's.  At least it
is occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Richard
Burton.  As no one answered the telephone,
suppose we take the Fifth Avenue bus and
see if by a stroke of good fortune we have
located the right place.  I do hope so.  If
not, I suppose we can find a quiet hotel and
spend the night there, or if not go to a
Y.W.C.A. and explain our difficulty.  In
the morning I fear we must return to
Washington and there humbly inquire for
Tante's address.  I might telegraph of
course, but as mother and father are not at
home, to find we have vanished before they
receive the letter I left for them, will annoy
and frighten them.  Heigh-ho, it is a
puzzling world, Elce dear; when I thought
I was attempting a simple journey for a
good cause here I am in an entirely
unexpected tangle!"

In spite of her uncertainty, for she had
but little assurance of finding her guardian,
Bettina could not fail to enjoy the ride up
Fifth Avenue in the crowded bus.  Not yet
dark, still here and there lights were shining
in the office buildings, while the throngs of
people hurrying home grew constantly
larger.  The bus passed the low, classic
stone building she recognized as the New
York Public Library, then a group of
magnificent houses and hotels and the entrance
to Central Park.

At Sixty-first Street and Fifth Avenue
Bettina and her companion dismounted.

Half a block further on they entered a
handsome apartment building.

"Will you telephone up and ask either
Mr. or Mrs. Richard Burton to see Miss
Bettina Graham," Bettina asked the
elevator boy.  "I won't give your name, Elce;
it is better that I explain later and the two
names might be confusing," she whispered,
more uneasy than she cared to confess even
to herself.

The reply brought a flush of color to
Bettina's cheeks.  She was to "come up at once."

"I am afraid I am a good deal relieved.
In truth I am so tired I shall tumble into
bed as soon as dinner is over and not try to
have a long talk with Tante before morning.
Probably she would prefer me to wait, as
she will soon be leaving for the theater.
I hope her apartment is not very small, but
in any case she will have to find room for
us to-night," Bettina managed to confide
on the way up to the fifth floor.

The moment she had rung the bell, the
door opened.

Bettina and Elce found themselves
confronting a young man of about eighteen or
nineteen years of age.

"Won't you come in?  I believe you
wish to see my mother.  I did not catch
your name, but she will be at home in a few
moments.  The apartment has been deserted
all afternoon, but I am sure she won't be
much longer away."

An absurd instant Bettina forgot her
dignity and the number of her years and
suffered an impulse to shed tears.  She was
tired and it was late.  She felt the
responsibility for her companion.  Of course she
should not have rushed to New York in
this impetuous fashion without her mother's
knowledge, or informing her Camp Fire
guardian of her intention.

"You are very kind.  I am sorry to have
troubled you, but it is not your mother I
am looking for.  I was afraid I was making
a mistake.  I am seeking for another
Mrs. Richard Burton and merely hoped that
this might prove to be her address."

"You are convinced it is not."  The
young fellow's manner was so kind that
Bettina felt slightly less depressed.
"Suppose you tell me something of the
Mrs. Burton you *do* wish to find, give me some
kind of a clue and I may be able to help
you."

"Well, I scarcely know how to explain.
I came to New York under the impression
that Mr. and Mrs. Burton were at a hotel
where I know they have been for a number
of months and unexpectedly learned they
had moved."

"Surely you could have inquired where
they have gone!"

Scarcely conscious of how cross and tired
she appeared, Bettina frowned.

"Oh, of course I inquired, but the hotel
clerk refused to inform me.  Mrs. Burton's
play this winter is a great success and I
suppose so many people have called on her
that she felt obliged to refuse to permit her
address to be given to strangers, and I was
unable to convince the clerk I was an old
friend."

Bettina and Elce were about to turn away.

"Do you mean you are trying to discover
the Mrs. Burton who is Polly O'Neill
Burton, and is acting in the new play
known as 'A Tide in the Affairs'?  I saw
it only a few nights ago.  Why do you not
go to her theater and inquire where she
lives.  The theater is at Forty-seventh and
Broadway.  If you do not receive the
information you could wait until
Mrs. Burton arrives.  I wish you would allow
my mother to go with you.  If I were only
another girl I might be useful.  As I am
not, I don't dare propose to accompany
you.  But there are two of you, so I suppose
you will be all right, although I don't like
the idea of your going to a theater at this
hour alone."

Bettina smiled, forgetting in her evident
relief to be as conventional as was usual
with her.

"I am very much obliged to you.  I
don't see why I did not think of your
suggestion myself.  There is no reason to
trouble you any further.  Of course yours
is the proper solution of our difficulty, I
knew there must be one if I could only
discover it.  Good-by and thank you."

An hour later Bettina Graham and Elce
were entering an old house in Gramercy
Park which recently had been made over
into apartments.  And within a few
moments Mrs. Burton's arms were about Bettina.

"My dear, how lovely it is to see you
after so long!  But what has brought you
here at this hour without letting me know?
Surely nothing has happened to Betty or
to you!  You have not come to tell me
your mother is ill and wants me?"

Bettina shook her head.

"No, dear, there is no reason to be
uneasy.  I simply wish to talk over a question
with you, partly because you are my Camp
Fire guardian, but more I suppose because
you are yourself.  I left Washington
suddenly and did not think it worth while to
telegraph.  You see I did not dream you
had moved, or that I would have any
difficulty in discovering you.  But let me tell
you the whole story in the morning.  Elce
and I are tired and hungry.  Can you find
a place for us?"

"Don't be absurd, Bettina.  Think,
dear, I have not seen one of my Camp Fire
girls in six months!  Come and let us find
Richard, he is in the drawing-room; then
we will have dinner as I must be off to the
theater soon afterwards.  We can have a
long, uninterrupted talk after breakfast
tomorrow."





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.. _`THE GENERATIONS`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE GENERATIONS

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At ten o'clock the next morning
Bettina and Mrs. Burton were in her
small sitting-room with the door
closed.

The room was characteristic of its
owner--filled with warm, soft colors in shades of
rose and blue, a few beautiful pieces of
furniture, a few photographs, two exquisite
paintings on the wall.

In a large chair before the fire, with a
small table drawn up beside her, Mrs. Burton
had just finished breakfast and was
reading her mail, while Bettina wandered
about examining the rosewood desk, the
pictures, dipping her nose into a blue bowl
filled with violets which had arrived not a
quarter of an hour before and which
Bettina herself had arranged.

"I have a letter from your mother,
Princess; she is not writing from Washington
and has not yet heard you are with me.
However, she says she wishes that we could
have a talk together," Mrs. Burton remarked,
dropping into the fanciful title the
Camp Fire girls had bestowed upon Bettina
Graham years before, and which they now
only used occasionally.

"Come and make your confession, dear,
for besides being by nature curious I can't
help being troubled.  Surely, Bettina, you
have not been falling in love with some one
whom your mother does not approve!  If
so, I am going to be equally difficult.  When
I became your Camp Fire guardian long
ago, and you were all small girls, I never
considered the responsibilities that your
growing up would thrust upon me, and
have often thought of resigning the honor
since."

Bettina came and stood before the fire
with her hands clasped in front of her and
looking down at the older woman, who was
gazing up at her half smiling and half
frowning.

"I don't see what especial difference your
resigning as our Camp Fire guardian would
make, Tante.  We would all continue to
come to you with our problems and you
would be wounded and offended should we
choose any one else.  It is true most of us
are growing rather old for the Camp Fire,
and yet it has become so important a part
of our lives no one of us would dream of
giving it up.  By the way, you are looking
wonderfully well, as if your work were
agreeing with you better than I thought
possible."

"Yes, I am well, thank you.  Is it so
difficult to confide what you came to New
York to tell me?  I don't like to think of
your search for me yesterday and the
possibility that you might not have found me.
When Captain Burton, believing I was
seeing too many people, left the order at
the hotel I was afraid that some one might
come seeking me whom I should regret
missing.  Won't you sit down?"

Bettina shook her head.

"No, I would rather not.  Somehow it is
harder to begin my story than I dreamed!
You see, I want so much to have you feel
as I do about what I am going to tell you,
since it means my whole life, and yet I am
dreadfully afraid you won't.  As you know,
mother and I have disagreed about many
small matters since I was a little girl.  I
was obstinate, I suppose, and she never has
wholly recovered from her disappointment
that I am so unlike her in my disposition
and tastes.  In the past father and I have
seemed to understand each other, until
now when he too is not in sympathy with
me.  Oh, I realize I am coming to my
point slowly, but you must let me try and
tell you in my own fashion.  You care so
much for mother I fear your affection for
her may prejudice you against me."

"Isn't that a strange speech, Bettina, as
if I did not care for you as well, and as if
there could be any division of interest
between your mother and you?"

The Camp Fire guardian spoke slowly,
studying Bettina closely.  More than she
realized, in the past six months Bettina had
changed; she looked older and more serious
and did not appear in especially good
health.  She had grown thinner.  Under
her eyes were shadows and about her lips
discontented lines.

With the first suggestion of criticism her
manner had altered.

Years before when Bettina was much
younger, during the first months as
Sunrise Camp Fire guardian, Mrs. Burton had
not understood Bettina's reserve, the little
coldness which made her apparently express
less affection than the other girls.  Later,
when this proved to be more shyness than
coldness, she had come to believe that,
although Bettina did not care for many
persons, her affections were deep and abiding
and that between them lay a friendship as
strong as was possible between a girl and a
so much older woman.

"Yes, Bettina has altered more than I
dreamed," she reflected.

"I am sorry to hear you say, Tante, that
mother and I cannot have an interest apart,
because that is exactly what has occurred,"
Bettina announced.  "We have differed,
we do still differ upon a question of such
importance that I doubt if our old relation
can ever be exactly the same.  Of course I
care for mother as much as I ever cared,
although she declines to believe it.  She
already has said that her affection for me
is not the same."

"Nonsense, Bettina," Mrs. Burton
answered.  "Please tell me what you mean
more clearly and be prepared to have me
frank with you.  If you feel you will be
angry unless I agree with you, my opinion
will not be of value."

"Oh, I am accustomed to everybody's
being frank in their disapproval of me
whenever they hear what I wish to do.  I
do not expect you to agree with me, Tante,
but I did hope you would listen to my side
of the question and not think me altogether
selfish and inconsiderate, which is the
family point of view at present."

In Bettina's manner there was a subtle
change, her tone less self-assured, her expression
showing more appeal and less challenge.

In the same instant Mrs. Burton appreciated
that to fail Bettina now was to fail
Bettina's mother as well, even to end the
long friendship upon which they both
depended.  Beneath Bettina's assumption
of hardness and wilfulness, she was
sincerely troubled.  Moreover, she was facing
some decision vital to her future.

"Come and sit down beside me, dear,
you look so tall and old towering above me.
And suppose we do not presume in the
beginning that we are going to
misunderstand each other.  You want to confide in
me and I am glad you do; now go on and
I shall not interrupt."

At the change in her Camp Fire guardian's
manner, Bettina's face softened, she
seemed younger and gentler.  Sitting down
on a low chair she leaned forward, placing
her clasped hands in the older woman's lap
and gazing directly at her with eyes that
were clear and gallant, even if they were a
little obstinate and cold.

Mrs. Burton experienced a sensation of
relief.  In Bettina's opposition to her
mother there could be nothing seriously wrong.

She began to speak at once:

"Perhaps my confession is not so dreadful
as you fear, Tante.  The unfortunate
thing is that mother and I cannot seem to
agree and that we have argued the question
so many times until of late we have not
only argued but quarreled.  Well, I shall
begin at the beginning!  When we said
good-by to one another at Tahawus cabin,[\*]
I remained at home in Washington for only
a few weeks and then mother and I opened
our summer house.  We both wrote you
that she and father and Tony and
Marguerite Arnot and I spent several perfect
months together motoring and sailing and
swimming with one another and with the
people who came to see us.  David Hale
came now and then, and Tony's college
friends, besides Washington friends and
Sally and Alice Ashton for a few days.
There was only one small difficulty.  I
became intimate with an older woman who
was boarding not far away.  Mother did
not consider her particularly desirable.  She
was polite to her as she is to most people
and did not really object to Miss Merton
until she began to feel that she was having
more influence over me than she liked.
Miss Merton is a settlement worker and
used to tell me of her life and the people
she is thrown with and the help she is able
to give them.  I found the account of her
work very fascinating, until mother began
to feel I was neglecting my family and
preferring Miss Merton's society.  This
was not true; I did not care so much for
Miss Merton herself, although I do admire
her.  It was her experiences among the
poor which interested me so keenly; the
clubs and classes and the nursing and the
effort to teach our immigrants more of the
spirit and opportunities of the United
States."


[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake".


"Yes, I know, my dear, social settlement
work is not a new discovery.  Was it to
you?  What in the world can this have to
do with you?  Surely your mother did not
oppose your friendship with this Miss
Merton to such an extent that you have made
a tragedy of it!"

"No, of course not.  What happened
was just this.  I became so interested in
social settlement work that I have decided
it is the work to which I wish to devote my
life.  I thought over the question for weeks
and then I spoke to mother.  I told her
that I could not possibly do what she
desired for me and make my début in
Washington society this winter.  The very
idea makes me wretched!  I assured her
she could not realize what an utter waste
of time a society life appears to me.
Besides, I am not in any way fitted for it.  I
asked her to allow me to spend this winter
studying social settlement work.  Then if I
found I could be useful I would choose it
as my life work.  You know I never have
felt that I wished to marry and for the last
two years, when we were not busy with
the reconstruction work in France I have
been more restless than any one realized.
I must find my own road, yet I did not
know in what direction it lay."

"Yes, well, go on, Bettina," Mrs. Burton
urged, smiling a little inwardly and yet
conscious of Bettina's immense seriousness,
which made her egotism pardonable.

"Well, mother at first simply declined to
pay any attention to what I told her.
Afterwards when she began to see that I
was in earnest she declined to have me
mention the subject to her again.  She
announced that her plans were made; I
was to make my début early in October
and to spend the winter at home.  She
declared that social settlement work should
be left to older people and to girls who had
fewer opportunities.  She said other things
of course, but the important fact is that
she refuses to permit me the choice of my
own life.  Because she cares for society
and people and being beautiful and admired
is no reason why I should care for the same
things.  If I were older I should do as I
like.  Miss Merton has charge of a settlement
house on the east side in New York
and would take me in to live with her."

Bettina put up her hands to her flushed cheeks.

"I suppose this sounds as if I did not care
in the least for what mother wishes, and
yet I do.  I am sorry to disappoint her; I
wish I had been what she desired.  Yet I
cannot for that reason change my own
nature and my own inclinations.  Do please
say something, Tante; it is not like you to
remain silent so long."

"I did not wish to interrupt you and I
am feeling sorry for Betty."

"Sorry for mother?  Of course I expected
you would be; everybody is sorry for her.
They always have been sorry that she
should have a daughter who has neither her
beauty, nor charm, nor sweetness; the fact
that I am a failure in society and wish to
lead my own life is only one thing more.
You need not for a moment suppose that
the sympathy is not all with mother.  I
regret having troubled you.  I thought when
you were a girl your family and friends
were bitterly opposed to your going on the
stage and that regardless of them you did
the thing you wished.  But you are a
genius and have proved your right to do
as you like.  I understand that makes all
the difference in the world.  It even justifies
sacrificing other people."

Hurt and angry, and not sure of her own
position, Bettina felt the common impulse
to strike at some one else.  The moment
after her final speech she was sorry to have
made it.

"Have I sacrificed other people to have
my own way, Bettina?  I wonder?  If you
mean that I returned to the stage in opposition
to Aunt Patricia's wish, it is true,"
Mrs. Burton answered.

"You would not have referred to this
had you known how unhappy it has made
me.  Since we parted at Tahawus cabin
Aunt Patricia has never spoken to me or
answered one of my letters.  She has not
allowed me to see her, although I have been
twice to Boston for no other purpose.  Yet,
Bettina, are the circumstances the same?
I do not wish to hurt Aunt Patricia, but I
am not a girl by many years, and I chose
my profession long ago.  I explained that
my husband and I needed the money I am
able to make and could not continue to
accept Aunt Patricia's generosity.  She
has no real objection to my return to the
stage except the mistaken notion that I'm
not strong enough and the fact that she
cannot allow me to do what her will opposes.
Dear Aunt Patricia is nothing, if not an
autocrat!  Still there are hours when I miss
her so much, when it hurts to have her
believe me ungrateful, until I almost regret
what I have done, pleased as I am at the
success of my new play.  I often wish I had
tried more persuasion with Aunt Patricia.
But, Bettina, I never claimed to be a model
person, and as you seem to feel I have no
right to judge you, suppose we do not
discuss your difficulty."

Flushing Bettina bit her lips and lowered
her lids over her grey eyes.

"I don't wonder you say that, Tante,
and I deserve it.  To be rude to you does
not help my cause, does it?  Certainly it
would not with mother.  Besides you know
I thoroughly approved of your return to
the stage and think Aunt Patricia utterly
unreasonable.  There isn't any likeness
between my position and yours in this
instance.  What I want you to do is to try
and think how you felt when you were a
girl and all your family and friends opposed
your going on the stage.  Didn't they tell
you that you were selfish and unreasonable
and breaking people's hearts from sheer
obstinacy?  I don't wish to be disagreeable,
I have no great talent as you have, I just
want you to try to feel a little sympathy
for me, even if you feel more for mother."

The Camp Fire guardian smiled and
shook her head, yet laid her hand on Bettina's.

"My dear, you are making a more difficult
request than you realize.  It is so hard
to go back to one's past that most of us
only understand our own generation.  You
Camp Fire girls should have taught me
more wisdom!  Of course I sympathize with
you if you are unhappy, Bettina, and feel
yourself in the wrong place, yet I am
sorrier for your mother, because you cannot
possibly realize how much you are hurting
her.  She never has believed you cared for
her deeply and now that you are not
willing to spend even one season with her in
doing what she wishes, she is the more
firmly convinced that you have no affection
for her.  You talk a great deal of not
having your mother's beauty and charm;
well, perhaps not in the same degree; but
Betty, I know, is very proud of you and
thinks you are infinitely cleverer than she
and that you feel this yourself."

"Tante, you are not fair," Bettina interrupted.

"Then perhaps you would rather I would
not go on."

"Yes, I want to know what you think,
only what you have said is absurd.  Mother
never has been proud of me, although this
is scarcely her fault.  She agrees with me
that I am not a success in society, only she
insists that this is because I won't try to
make myself popular."

"Do you try?"

"Well, no, not especially, but why should
I?  If I were allowed to do what I like, to
give all my energy and the little knowledge
I possess to help people less fortunate than
I am, I should try as I have never tried to
accomplish anything in my life."

"You are not willing to make any effort
to fulfill your mother's wish.  Suppose we
do not discuss the subject, Bettina, any
further at present.  We are both tired.  I
telegraphed your mother last night and am
writing to-day to ask if you may make me
a visit."

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Burton arose.

"I told you I did not wish to be
disturbed," she protested when the door
opened and another girl entered.

This girl possessed an apparently colorless
manner and personality, she had ash-brown
hair and eyes and the question of
her appearance would scarcely occur to any
one who knew her but slightly.  Juliet
Temple was not a member of the Sunrise
Camp Fire.  She had been introduced to the
Camp Fire guardian and the group of girls
by Mrs. Burton's husband during the
winter they had spent together in the
Adirondacks.

Not popular with the rest of the household,
Juliet Temple had continued to live
with Mrs. Burton in a position a little
difficult to describe.  Treated as a member
of the family, she was useful to Mrs. Burton
in a variety of ways, in fact she had come
to depend upon her far more than she
appreciated.

"Yes, I understood that you did not
desire to be disturbed, but I think when
you know who wishes to see you that you
will feel differently," Juliet said quietly.

Accepting the cards that were offered her,
Mrs. Burton exclaimed:

"Bettina, you cannot guess who has
arrived, unless you have arranged to
surprise me!  Not to have seen one of you
Camp Fire girls in all these months and
now to have four of you appear at the same
time scarcely seems accidental."

Bettina got up.

"I don't know what you mean!"

The Camp Fire guardian disappeared.

A moment later, returning to her sitting-room
she was accompanied by three girls,
one of them a tall girl with dusky black
hair and eyes and a foreign appearance in
spite of the fact that she was an American.

The other two girls were sisters, although
utterly unlike in appearance; one of them
was tall and slightly angular with gray eyes
and reddish hair.  The younger girl had
golden brown hair and eyes, was small and
softly rounded.  Her expression at the
moment was one of demure happiness.

"Vera Lagerloff, Alice Ashton and Sally
Ashton, at your service, Bettina," the
Sunrise Camp Fire guardian announced with a
curtsey.

"But, Bettina Graham, how in the world
do you happen to be in New York at this time?"

Bettina laughed.

"That is exactly the question I was about
to ask of you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FUTURE PLANS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   FUTURE PLANS

.. vspace:: 2

"We are spending the winter in New
York; actually I have been
intending to write you for weeks,
Bettina, but have been too busy; Alice
and I are taking special courses at Columbia
and Sally is here keeping house for us,"
Vera Lagerloff answered.

"Have I talked so much, Tante, that
you have had no opportunity to tell me so
important a piece of news?" Bettina inquired.

After finding chairs for her guests,
Mrs. Burton had seated herself on a couch beside
Sally Ashton.  She now shook her head.

"No, Bettina, I could not have told you,
since I had no idea the girls were in New
York.  You see, they have never before
been to see me or let me hear where they
were.  Have you been in town long?"

There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

"About a month; but please let me
explain," Alice Ashton said, seeing that the
other girls were waiting for her to assume
the responsibility of a reply.  "I realize
this must seem strange to you, and I grant
you it does look odd, as if we had lost all
our affection and gratitude.  And yet you
can not believe this of us!"

"I have made no accusation," the Camp
Fire guardian returned, yet in her tone
and manner there was an unconscious
accusation, which made it difficult for Alice
to continue.

"I am afraid you are wounded, Tante;
I am sorry," she added awkwardly and
paused.

Guardian of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls
for a number of years, Mrs. Richard Burton,
whose professional name was Polly O'Neill
Burton, had given up her career on the
stage and traveled with the Camp Fire
girls in the west.  Later when the great
war turned the world upside down she had
gone with them to Europe accompanied by
a wealthy and eccentric spinster, Miss
Patricia Lord.  After two years in France
and a summer in England they had come
back to their own country and on account
of the Camp Fire guardian's health had
spent the preceding winter in the Adirondacks.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls" Series.

.. vspace:: 2

With the close of the winter Mrs. Burton
had returned to the stage and the Camp
Fire girls to their homes.  There had been
no meeting between them until to-day.

"Tante" was the title which the greater
number of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls used
in speaking to their guardian.

"Please don't behave as if you were too
wounded to be angry," Sally Ashton
remonstrated, moving closer to the older
woman and slipping an arm about her.
"And please remember that it is a good
deal more of a trial for your Camp Fire girls
to have been separated from you for all
these months than for you to have had a
brief rest from their society.  Some of us
at least realize that you have given too much
of yourself to us for the last few years when
a so much larger public needed you.  I
can't tell you how proud I am of your
latest success.  I have read dozen of notices
in the papers and the critics all say that
you are more wonderful than ever."

Mrs. Burton smiled.

"You are very complimentary, Sally
dear, and of course I am immensely flattered.
Nevertheless this does not explain why
you girls have never come near me for a
month, or taken the trouble to write or
telephone.  This would not have interfered
seriously with the holiday which you seem
to feel I have required."

Rising, Alice Ashton came over and stood
before her guardian, her expression
unusually gentle and affectionate.  Ordinarily
Alice was not tactful, although sincerity
and a fine sense of honor were her ruling
characteristics.

"See here, Tante, we are in an uncomfortable
position and there is nothing to do
save tell you the entire story and let you
judge.  You will say frankly whether you
think we have been right or wrong.  I feel
sure that Sally and Vera have felt as I do,
when I say there has scarcely been a day
since our arrival in New York when we
have not thought of you and longed to see
you.  We have been to your play several times."

"Why avoid me, dear?  What can it be
that you find so difficult to say?  I prefer
to know."

"Even if the reason will trouble you
more than the fact?  The truth is that
Aunt Patricia would not agree to have us
see you."

"So Aunt Patricia's influence is stronger
than your feeling for me!  Perhaps that is
as it should be, but I can not altogether
recognize what I have done which makes
Aunt Patricia not only refuse to have
anything to do with me herself, but wish to
separate you Camp Fire girls from me as
well.  I suppose she fears I may affect
you with the ingratitude and obstinacy I
possess.  As long as you were so compliant
with Aunt Patricia's wish, Alice, why did
you change?  Aunt Patricia has not changed!"

"You are angry and hurt and I don't
know how to go on," Alice returned, her
gray blue eyes darkening, a flush coming
into her cheeks.

"Then don't try, Alice," Sally interrupted.
"Tante, please be sensible and don't
make a tragedy over a situation that is
uncomfortable enough for us all, goodness
knows!  I have no gift of words but at least
I can speak plainly.  Alice and Vera both
feel under obligation to Aunt Patricia
because she is paying their expenses in New
York this winter.  I have not been here
so long as they have, in fact I only arrived
a few days ago.  Aunt Patricia has rented
a lovely little apartment for us and is being
generous as only she can be.  So when
she asked Alice and Vera not to come to
see you, they considered that in a way
they were obliged to do as she asked; I
had no such feeling.  Aunt Patricia has been
spending a few days with us and this
morning at breakfast, I had the matter out
with her.  I simply told her I was coming
to call on you, that she of course must do
as she liked, but that I had been caring for
you all my life and had no idea of ever
doing anything else.  If she did not wish
me to remain on at the apartment, she
could of course send me home."

"Bravo, Sally!" Bettina Graham said
softly under her breath.

"Of course," Sally added, "Alice and
Vera have a different attitude toward Aunt
Patricia.  I have never been a favorite
with her, as they have, or lived alone with
her during their reconstruction work in
France.  My own opinion is that Aunt
Patricia wants to see you so much herself
that she is unwilling to have us see you, for
fear we shall talk of you afterwards.  She
made it a stipulation this morning when
she agreed we could come to see you that
your name was not to be mentioned in her
presence.  I really am awfully sorry for
her.  She is very lonely this winter I am
afraid, shut up in her big house near Boston.
She cares for you more than any one in the
world, and only comes to New York
occasionally, I really believe to find out how
you are, although no one of us has been
able to discover if she has been to see you
act."

During Sally Ashton's long speech neither
her sister, Alice, nor Vera Lagerloff had
appeared particularly serene.

Vera Lagerloff was an unusual looking
girl; at Sally's words, her eyes narrowed,
her skin paled slightly and her lips parted
over her firm, white teeth.  In all the years
of their Camp Fire life together, no one of
her companions had ever seen Vera seriously
angry, although she always insisted that
notwithstanding her American birth, she
shared the Russian peculiarity.

She looked more aggrieved at this moment
than was customary.

"Sally is making a good story so far as
she is concerned, although not so fortunate
a one for us," she commented.  "Still the
worst of it is, Mrs. Burton, that Alice and I
cannot altogether deny the truth of what
she has told you."  (Vera was always more
formal in her manner toward the Sunrise
Camp Fire guardian than the other girls,
and rarely used the title of "Tante.")  "We
do feel under obligation to Aunt Patricia;
neither Alice nor I could have afforded the
winter at Columbia save for her kindness.
Yet she did not insist on our not coming
to see you, or letting you hear from us.
She merely asked it as a favor, and only
for a limited length of time.  One of the
reasons she gave was that you had chosen
to separate yourself from us in order to
give your time and energy to your stage
career and that we should not interfere.
Alice and I were merely waiting to decide
what was wisest and best."

"Very well, I understand; please let us
not discuss the question any further.  Of
course, Vera, dear, I know Aunt Patricia
also told you I would be an unfortunate
influence, but you are perfectly right not
to speak of this.  Do tell me what you and
Alice are studying at Columbia and whether
you like New York and, oh, dozens of
other things!"

The Camp Fire guardian's manner was
sweet and friendly as her arm encircled
Sally and she gave her an affectionate
embrace.

Sally dimpled and smiled.

"You are a prophet, Tante.  Aunt
Patricia suggested only this morning that
in order to have your own way, you disregarded
every one's wishes.  The implication
was that I bore a slight, but unfortunate
resemblance to you."

At this the other girls laughed and the
atmosphere cleared.

"Alice is preparing to study medicine
and I am taking a course in architecture
and another in domestic science.  Aunt
Patricia talks sometimes of returning to
France and spending the rest of her days
over there at her home for French war
orphans.  She says if we wish and our
parents agree she may take Alice and me
with her."

Sally Ashton shook her head.

"Don't worry, Tante, Aunt Patricia will
never leave this country without you."

Mrs. Burton, who had been glancing into
the flames which flickered in a small open
fire, now looked up.

"Really, Alice and Vera, I am glad you
have done what Aunt Patricia wished,
although at first I confess I was hurt and
angry.  If she needs you, you must fill her
life as completely as you can.  I don't
agree with Sally, much as I would like to.
Aunt Patricia is singularly unforgiving and
must have lost all affection for me.  You'll
stay to lunch with us.  You and Bettina
have not had a moment's conversation and
she has a great deal to tell you.  I'll go
and see about things."

After the Camp Fire guardian had
disappeared from the room, Bettina Graham
slipped into her place beside Sally.

"Do come and sit close to us in a Camp
Fire square, if not a Camp Fire circle,"
Bettina urged.  "If you girls only knew
how glad I am to see you and how your
being here in New York makes me more
than ever anxious to do what I have been
planning!  You know how I always have
hated the idea of making my début in
society.  Well, as the ordeal has drawn
nearer, I have found myself hating the
possibility more than ever.  This summer
while we were at our new home, that we
call 'The House by the Blue Lagoon,' I at
last made up my mind what I really wish
to do.  I want to devote my life to social
work and to begin by studying social
settlement work in New York this winter."

Sally Ashton sighed.

"Oh, dear, how did I ever wander into so
serious a Camp Fire group?  Is there no
one of the Sunrise girls who does not wish
for a career save me?  Of course there are
Peggy and Gerry, but they already have
chosen matrimony as their careers."

"Do be quiet, Sally.  What a perfectly
delightful idea, Bettina dear!  Why can't
you spend the winter with us?  We have
another small bed-room in our apartment
and I am sure Aunt Patricia will be
delighted to have you with us," Alice Ashton
urged.

Bettina shook her head.

"No such good fortune, Alice!  Mother
is entirely opposed to my wish and insists
upon my following her desire for me.  I
ran away to New York to try to persuade
Tante to use her influence with mother to
permit me to do what I like, but I find she
takes mother's point of view altogether.
We were discussing the subject when you
came in and she had just told me she
thought it would be selfish and inconsiderate
of me to argue the matter any further.  So
I suppose I must go back to Washington
and be a wallflower all winter.

"I forgot to tell you that Elce, our little
Lancashire girl, is here with me.  She was
ill at school and sent to me, as no one
seemed able to find anything the matter,
save that she was so homesick and
miserable.  Now something has to be done for
her and with her and I am so glad to have
the opportunity to ask your advice.  I am
afraid that to send her to another boarding
school would be to have the same thing
occur, and yet she must have some education.
She cares for nothing save her music
and the outdoors and was perfectly well
and happy when she was with mother and
me last summer."

A moment the three girls remained silent,
then Sally answered.

"If you and Tante think it wise and
Alice and Vera and Aunt Patricia are
willing, why not have Elce come and live with
us this winter?  I know she would rather
be with you, Bettina, but if you are to be
introduced into society in Washington, you
will scarcely be able to give any time to
her.  Besides, your mother may not wish
to have her.  Elce can go to school in New
York and I'll look after her otherwise.
Perhaps this is not the best thing for her,
but it is the only solution I can suggest.
She won't be so homesick with us as at
boarding school and she will have greater
freedom, then I shall like to feel that I am
doing something useful."

"Good gracious, Sally, isn't making a
home for Alice and me being useful?" Vera
remonstrated.  "I am sorry if I seemed
cross a few moments ago; this was largely
because you were in the right and Alice and
I did not enjoy our position."

Before any one could reply there was a
knock at the door and another girl entered.

"Mrs. Burton says that luncheon is
ready if you will be kind enough to come in.
I am going to ask you not to stay long
afterwards; Mrs. Burton would not mention
it I am sure, but she is supposed to lie down
every afternoon for a short rest."

As the four Camp Fire girls followed
Juliet Temple out of the room, Sally
managed to whisper to Bettina:

"What is there about Juliet Temple that
is so annoying?  That little speech she just
made is the kind of thing that makes me
especially angry, as if she were far more
intimate with Tante and more devoted to
her welfare than any of her Camp Fire
girls?  I suppose she is devoted to her and
certainly she makes herself useful and yet I
never feel sure of her.  In my opinion she
represents one of the causes of Aunt
Patricia's estrangement."

Bettina shook her head.

"I feel a good deal as you do, Sally,
although I am not even so confident of the
reason.  Sometimes I think you are a better
judge of character than any of the rest of
us, so if you have an opportunity this
winter I wish you would study Juliet
Temple and find out what you can.  Is she
really devoted to Tante, or is she only
devoted to her for what she thinks she can
gain?  Come, we must not keep luncheon
waiting and I want you to see Elce.  Suppose
we talk to her of your proposal."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NATURAL HISTORY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   NATURAL HISTORY

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Burton's New York
apartment was not large.

In her present state of mind
Bettina Graham was restless, so, as her
mother had consented that she spend the
week with her Camp Fire guardian, she
devoted many hours each day to being out
of doors and to sight seeing.

She was never alone; one of her excuses
was that Elce must be amused and not
allowed to be troublesome.  The little
English girl, the daughter of a Lancashire
miner, who had been deserted by her father
and in a way thrust upon the Camp Fire
girls during a brief visit to Ireland, always
accompanied her.

Elce was not a trying companion when
one wished to pursue one's own train of
thought.  She talked but little and seemed
shy and not particularly clever save for her
extraordinary musical gift.  Not that she
had any gift for the technique of music.
One of Bettina's puzzles and disappointments
was that so far the younger girl had
failed to show any proper interest in the
study of music.  Her talent seemed
spontaneous and natural as a bird's ability to
sing and she seemed as little capable of
acquiring musical knowledge.

Undoubtedly a problem, Bettina believed
that Elce was chiefly her problem.  During
the summer in "Merrie England," when
the little girl had been a maid of all work
in their household, she first had become
interested in her and in return Elce, whom
they then knew by the Lancashire title of
"Chitty," had given her a devotion, which
she revealed toward no one else.  Indeed,
the younger girl appeared curiously free
from the ordinary affections and to be
strangely shy, or self-contained.

It was at Bettina's request that her
father had undertaken to pay for the little
girl's education.  There had been no thought
of making her a member of their household,
save perhaps during certain holidays.

With Marguerite Arnot the circumstances
were different.  Marguerite was older and
in spite of her difficult background of
poverty and hard work[\*] was possessed of
unusual beauty and charm.  Then at once
Marguerite had responded to her mother's
influence.  Indeed, Bettina, although
recognizing the unreasonableness of her own
attitude, frequently had to stifle pangs of
something approaching jealousy at the
sympathetic relation between them.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France."

.. vspace:: 2

Marguerite was no longer shy save in a
graceful and attractive fashion.  If she
played but an inconspicuous part in the
social life now surrounding her, she had the
French tact and resourcefulness.  It seemed
to Bettina that, as her own difference of
opinion with her mother had grown and
developed, Marguerite was beginning to fill
her place.  In justice she could not criticize
Marguerite for circumstances with which
she had nothing to do, although not enjoying
the idea that her mother was turning to
some one else for the sympathy and devotion
which should have been her own to
give and to receive.

This afternoon, wandering about the
Natural History Museum with Elce,
Bettina was not particularly intent upon the
exhibitions, but instead was planning a
letter which she contemplated writing home
later in the evening, when Mrs. Burton
had gone to the theater and she could be
alone.

She meant to surrender her own desire;
nothing else appeared possible, but she
also wished her family to appreciate that
she believed she was being treated unjustly
and that she had the right to her own
choice of life.

Reaching a secluded corner and discovering
an unoccupied bench, Bettina sat down,
suggesting that Elce wander about alone
and come back for her later.  They were
on the floor devoted to the reproduction of
wild birds in their native haunts.  Since
the collection was a rarely beautiful one,
Bettina believed it would be of so great
fascination as to keep the younger girl
occupied for some time.  Personally she
was already fatigued.  Moreover, she wished
for an opportunity to think without the
possibility of being interrupted at any
moment.

After her original talk with her Camp
Fire guardian she had not referred to the
subject of their interview.  There was
little reason why she should.  Definitely
she understood that Mrs. Burton's sympathy
was with her mother and that she had
but scant patience with her rebellion against
what might appear to most girls as a singularly
fortunate fate.

Bettina was not only disappointed, but
puzzled and aggrieved.  From any one
save her Camp Fire guardian she would
have expected such a point of view.  She
herself was able to accept the fact that it
was but natural other people should
consider an opportunity to enter Washington
society, chaperoned by her mother and
with her father's prominent official position,
to be the summit of any natural girl's desire.
Yet from her Camp Fire guardian Bettina
had hoped for another viewpoint.  Had
she not heard her oftentimes insist that
every living human being must follow his
or her own road, and that whether for good
or ill she could have followed no career
save the one she had chosen.

The difference in their positions Bettina
Graham had far too much intelligence not
to recognize.  She was not choosing the
career of an artist and had revealed no
exceptional gifts.  She merely wanted to
give her life in service to persons less
fortunate than herself, rather than waste it, as
she felt, in a society existence for which she
had neither liking nor taste.  There was
nothing romantic nor inspiring in her desire.
Her mother and father were both convinced
that such work should be left to older
women, or to girls who possessed neither
her position nor opportunities.

So since the prop upon which unconsciously
she had been leaning, Mrs. Burton's
approval and help, had failed her, Bettina
decided to make no further protest for the
present.  Later she must convince her
family that her desire was not a whim, a
moment's caprice, the influence of a stronger
personality, which would vanish when other
interests became more absorbing.

Suddenly Bettina got up, realizing that
the room in which she was seated was growing
surprisingly dark and that a guard was
moving about, announcing that the hour
for closing had arrived.

Before leaving Bettina had first to find
her companion.

At the farther end of the room she
observed that a small crowd had formed,
who seemed loath to depart.

Drawing near, to her amazement she
heard a number of beautiful, birdlike notes
with which she was familiar.

Undisturbed by her audience, Elce was
standing by a showcase filled with birds
from the northern part of England, birds
which the little girl had known almost from
babyhood, as she had spent the greater
part of her time in the woods.  To-day
amid strange and different surroundings,
with apparent unconsciousness, she was
repeating such bird notes as she could recall.

The crowd about her was amused and admiring.

Bettina laid her hand on the younger
girl's shoulder.

"Elce, we must go at once, it is growing
late.  And you must remember you are not
in the woods, or you will have so large an
audience surrounding us some day that we
shall not be able to make our escape.  You
are an odd child!  I thought you were
exceptionally shy and afraid of people, and now
you do a surprising thing like this and
appear not in the least abashed."

In farewell Elce was nodding to several
persons who had been standing near.  She
appeared entirely unaware that her behavior
had been unusual.

Out in the street Bettina discovered that
the darkness had not been due solely to the
lateness of the hour, but that a thunderstorm
was approaching.

A few moments she stood hesitating.
The History Museum was on the west side
of the city and uptown and she wished to
reach the east side and down town as
promptly as possible.  By what method
she could most quickly accomplish this
result she was not certain.  Holding tight
to her companion's hand Bettina made a
hurried rush toward the Broadway subway.

She had no umbrella and large drops of
rain were descending.  The darkness was
surprising and interesting.  Men and women
stopped in their onward rush to look upward
toward the sky, where the clouds were
magnificent.

Then the rain became a downpour.  Still
Bettina and Elce rushed on, scarcely seeing
where they were going.

A moment and Bettina found her horizon
limited by an umbrella, which made a
circular barrier directly in her path.

"Is it possible that people can meet by
accident in New York City in this way?  I
do not see how you can remember us," she
was saying the following moment.

"Our meeting is not so surprising as you
think; people who live in New York never
see their acquaintances unexpectedly, while
strangers always do.  I am taking it for
granted that you are not a New Yorker.
You will have my umbrella, won't you?"

Bettina shook her head.

"No, I cannot do that, but if you will
see us to the subway and save Elce from
drowning in this rain, I shall be under a
second obligation to you.  We did find
Mrs. Burton the other evening in the
fashion you suggested."

Bettina was smiling, amused and entertained
by her unexpected encounter.  The
rain was dripping from her hat, her hair
blowing, her cloth skirt whipped about her
ankles.

"We are trying to reach Gramercy
Square," she added, when they had set out,
their companion vainly attempting to hold
his umbrella above the two girls.

"Then I suggest you take the bus so as
not to have to cross to the shuttle at Times
Square at this rush hour.  You won't think
I intend being impertinent, because already
I have discovered two things about you.
You are staying with Mrs. Richard Burton
and apparently she lives in Gramercy Park.
You see, you have an unfair advantage of
me in one respect, as you know that my
name is Burton and I have no idea of yours."

Making no rejoinder, Bettina's manner
became perceptibly colder.  She was not
an unconventional person and was beginning
to fear that she had displayed too great
friendliness in permitting herself to
recognize an acquaintance whom she had met in
so informal a fashion.

Yet until this moment he had seemed
unusually courteous.

At her change of manner he turned and
began talking to Elce, so that Bettina was
able to look at him more attentively.

She had only an indistinct impression of
him as he stood in his own doorway several
evenings before, giving her the aid of his
friendly advice.  Curious that she should
be appealing to his friendliness so soon
again!  Now she saw that the young man
had brown hair and eyes, was a good deal
taller than she, and that he had an expression
of delightful gaiety.  Unconsciously
Bettina felt a slight sensation of envy.  She
knew the copy of Donatello's faun and there
was something in her companion which
suggested the famous statue.  His brown
hair, wet by the rain, curled in heavy clusters,
his ears were slightly pointed, his face
glowed with health and humor.

"I am sorry if I have offended you," he
added.  "For my own part, I never have
understood why human beings require so
much formality in learning to know one
another.  I confess I have been struggling
to discover an acquaintance who knows
your Mr. and Mrs. Burton ever since our
accidental meeting the other evening.  No
one seems able to help me.  The only
human being I know named Burton outside
my own family is a Captain Burton I saw
in France.  He was engaged in Red Cross
work over there.  But I met him on the
street after our return and I remember he
told me he was living in Washington."

Bettina bit her lips to hide their smiling,
not altogether displeased by this information.

"We have reached Broadway, haven't
we?  I am so much obliged to you, as here
comes our bus.  It would be odd, wouldn't
it, if by chance we should both know the
same Captain Burton.  My Mr. Richard
Burton was in France in the service of the
Red Cross and did live in Washington for
a time after his return to this country.  He
does not use his title at present, since he
has given up his Red Cross work, although
many persons continue to call him Captain
Burton.  Of course there may have been
any number of Captain Burtons in the
army.  I have no idea that we can possess
any acquaintance in common.  Good-by
and thank you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RENUNCIATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   RENUNCIATION

.. vspace:: 2

At the door of Mrs. Burton's private
sitting-room, which was slightly ajar,
hearing voices inside, Bettina paused.
She had changed her wet outdoor costume
for a simple dinner dress, but did not wish
to disturb any visitor, knowing that her
Camp Fire guardian saw only intimate
friends at this hour and in this room.  The
room in which Bettina was standing at
present was the ordinary reception room.

Mrs. Burton was speaking and an instant
later Bettina caught the sound of her own
name.

"I did not dream, my dear, that Bettina
could be so selfish and unreasonable.  I
confess I *am* deeply disappointed in her!
Save that she told me what she wished with
her own lips, I could never have believed
she could be so inconsiderate of you."

Then a voice followed which surprised
Bettina, although it was the one voice with
which she was more familiar than any
other.

"But, Polly, perhaps you do not understand
Bettina.  She never before has seemed
either selfish or unreasonable.  And if she
now appears inconsiderate of me, the fault
probably is mine.  Bettina should have had
a more serious-minded mother, one who
would not have asked her to waste her gifts
and her beautiful, generous nature in a
society existence.  I have been talking with
Anthony since Bettina came to you.  He
seems unusually severe and for the first
time I can recall is annoyed with his 'Slim
Princess,' the title he used to bestow on
Bettina.  Anthony declares that Bettina
should wish to be with me beyond any other
possible desire and that she particularly
needs my influence.  This I am afraid is
not true.  I have been struggling to make
Anthony see, and you must recognize this
as an excuse for Bettina, Polly, dear, that
her wish at present is merely an inheritance
from Anthony.  For as long as I can
remember Anthony has been working to better
conditions for people whom he considers
less fortunate than himself.  This has kept
him many years in political life, when often
his own desire has been to retire.  Now
Bettina simply is longing to express the
same ideal in the work that, as a young girl,
she feels herself by nature fitted for.  I
have been standing in her way, I am afraid
the selfishness has been mine, although at
first I was unable to see the situation in
this light.  I am so proud of Bettina and so
wanted her to be with me in order to introduce
her to the brilliant and charming
friends Anthony and I have acquired in
our years in Washington."

"You are an angel, Betty!" Mrs. Burton
responded.

Her companion laughed, for the first
time her voice revealing a happier tone.

"Polly, there is only one human being in
this world possessed of fewer angelic
attributes!  That person is your famous self.
It is ridiculous and not in the least fair of
you to be so critical of Bettina.  I presume
you have forgotten that when you were a
girl you disappeared--was it for over a
year?--from all of us who cared for you.
At that time you deliberately set out to try
your fortune in so reprehensible a career as
the stage.  Now if Bettina had chosen so
undesirable a profession as yours, I might
be unhappy.  The work she wishes to do
is constructive and unselfish.  I went to
call on Miss Merton, the friend Bettina
made last summer who interested her in
social settlement work.  She has a very
different impression of Bettina from the one
you seem to have acquired as her Camp
Fire guardian.  She is a remarkable woman
and I never wish to forget what she said to
me.  She even agreed that Bettina should
remain this winter with me and do what I
planned for her, yet she believes that
Bettina has a wonderful personality and
unusual gifts and that one day she will do
work that may be of permanent value.
Under the circumstances it is I who have
failed Bettina.  In the future she will
remember and find it hard to forgive me."

"Mother!" there was a little rush as
Bettina entered the room.  An instant after
her arms were about her mother and her
cheek resting against her beautiful soft hair.

"I have been playing eavesdropper outside
the door for the past ten minutes and
so heard Tante villify my character and
your defence of me.  She isn't to be trusted,
is she, dearest?"

Bettina glanced toward her Camp Fire
guardian.  There was a little flash of
understanding between them.

Immediately Mrs. Burton rose from her chair.

"I am going into my room to dress for
dinner, Betty.  I don't know what Bettina's
idea of you may be, but I am convinced that
you are unreasonable and inconsiderate.  I
have merely seen your side of this question
because of my affection for you.  In return
you tell me that I have no true appreciation
of your daughter and that I have chosen a
profession for which you feel not respect
while Bettina's choice is altogether admirable."

Mrs. Burton's eyes were lowered and her
cheeks flushed as she moved toward her
own door.

"Polly dear, I haven't wounded you?
Please don't be angry with me, you never
have been in all these years."

There was no reply.  Bettina whispered,
"Don't mind Tante, mother.  I think
she really intended to force you to defend
me.  Certainly I am grateful to her.
Besides, she needs your criticism this winter,
now her play is such a success and she no
longer has Aunt Patricia or her Camp Fire
girls to keep her in order.  As for all those
foolish, delightful things you said about me,
I shall remember them always, although of
course they are not true.  When are you
going home?  I want to go with you, I
mean to be the most popular debutante in
Washington this winter.  The other foolish
dream of mine can wait."

Mrs. Graham shook her head.

"No, Bettina, now I understand how you
feel, I really don't desire you to do anything
except what you wish.  Don't leave us,
please, Polly, not for a few moments, I want
to talk to you.  You can't be offended.
Miss Merton suggests that Bettina take
some special courses in social work this
winter and that she come to her for practical
experience in the work two or three times a
week.

"I won't be lonely, I'll run over to New
York frequently to see you both.  And
remember, Polly, that you promised me
that you would come to me in the spring,
no matter if your play is the greatest
success in New York.  You assured Richard
and me that you would not try your
strength by a too long engagement.
Besides, you have never seen our 'House by
the Blue Lagoon'.  Bettina and I have
given the place this title.  It was Anthony's
anniversary gift to me.  The house is on an
island in the sea, but there is an arm of
water that has cut its way into the land
that is blue as the Bay of Naples.  You'll
bring as many of your Sunrise Camp Fire
girls with you as you can induce to come.
This shall be my reward that you and
Bettina both care more for what you are
pleased to call your careers than for me.
I shall try to persuade Aunt Patricia to join
us.  She must have relented by that time."

Mrs. Burton shook her head.

"Never, dear!  But of course I am coming
to you.  I lie awake at night and dream
of the happy time we shall have together
when the winter's work is past.  'The Blue
Lagoon', the very name is magical."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BOX PARTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BOX PARTY

.. vspace:: 2

The group of people entered the box
nearest the stage a few moments
before the curtain was to ascend.

In the effort to find places there was the
usual brief confusion; in the end the youngest
of the girls was seated in the chair next
the footlights, with two other girls in the
adjoining chairs, the chaperon and a fourth
girl behind them, while a little in the
background were three young men.

"Mother, do take the outside chair; I am
afraid you will not be able to see properly,
Bettina Graham suggested.

"Besides, Mrs. Graham, we wish the
handsomest member of our box party to
occupy the most conspicuous place."

Betty Graham arose to change places
with her daughter.

"Never mind, David, I am perfectly
willing to allow you to talk to Bettina
rather than to me, without such arrant
flattery which is not apt to make you
popular.  Besides, as I have not seen
Mrs. Burton's new play and am deeply interested,
I do not wish to be interrupted.  I am
afraid you young persons may wish to talk."

"There will be little danger of conversation
once the play is started," a third voice
interposed, "I have seen it three times and
found it as absorbing the last time as I did
the first."

Bettina Graham turned toward the speaker.

"I am glad you were able to come with
us to-night, Mr. Burton.  Do you remember
that you were the first person in New York
to mention, 'A Tide in the Affairs' to me?
In any event, mother, you need not fear we
shall be guilty of such bad manners as to
attempt to talk while the performance is
going on even if we dared.  It is odd that
I don't know the story of the play, but
then I have done my best not to find out so
as not to affect my pleasure."

Dressed in a new evening gown of pale
green chiffon, which had been her mother's
gift since her arrival in New York, with a
silver girdle and a fillet of silver wound
about her fair hair, her cheeks flushed with
excitement, Bettina Graham had never
been more beautiful.

At least this was the impression she made
upon two of the three young men who
were members of the same party; the third
was too absorbed in his own train of thought
and in his excitement over seeing Mrs. Burton
act for the first time to pay any
particular attention to any one of the four
girls.  Such interest as Allan Drain had
expressed had been for Mrs. Graham, who
was his especial friend.

As Robert Burton had seen Bettina only
four times before this evening, his opinion
was hardly of the same critical value as
David Hale's, whom Bettina had met and
known intimately several years before in
France.

Robert Burton, however, had never made
any effort to find out why Bettina Graham
had attracted him since the first moment of
their unconventional meeting.  To analyze
his own wishes had never been his habit.
Accepting her half laughing challenge, he
straightway had gone to call upon the
Mr. Richard Burton, who was her host, and
discovered him to be the Captain Burton
he had known in France.

Telling the story of his accidental meeting
with Bettina he had asked to be properly
introduced and Captain Burton had been
glad to agree.  He knew something of
Lieutenant Robert Burton's war record and
also that his father was a prominent New
York lawyer; but particularly he liked the
young fellow's straightforward fashion of
setting out to accomplish his design.

Twice in the past week Robert Burton
had called to see Bettina and been introduced
to her mother and Mrs. Burton.  This
evening he had been invited to be a member
of their theater party.  For the same
pleasure David Hale had come from Washington.

"Some night you hope to be sitting in
the theater like this, Allan, and have
Mrs. Burton produce your first play.  I wish
you luck.  Suppose in the spring you make
us a visit at my 'House by the Blue Lagoon'.
Mrs. Burton will be with me, resting, and
perhaps we may be able to persuade her to
read the play you are working on this
winter.  I shall always feel responsible for
the loss of your poems,[\*] although Mary
Gilchrist was actually the guilty person,"
Mrs. Graham declared, leaning a little back
in her chair and turning her head to speak
to the young man behind her.  "I still hope
some day to make things up to you, or
perhaps Mrs. Burton may."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake."

.. vspace:: 2

Allan Drain flushed.  He was a tall fellow
with strong features and reddish gold hair
which he wore fairly long.  A student of
medicine, he was in reality only interested
in writing.  He had met the Sunrise Camp
Fire girls, their guardian and Mrs. Graham
during the past winter which they had
spent in the Adirondacks.

"You have fully repaid me for any loss
by your friendship," he answered, with a
slight huskiness of voice.  "To hope that
Polly O'Neill Burton will ever be interested
in my poor efforts at play writing is too
much to expect, yet if it is possible I shall
come for the visit with the greatest pleasure.
There is nothing I should so enjoy."

A hush at this moment preceded the
raising of the curtain.  Out of sight of the
audience an orchestra began the strains of
an Irish melody famous half a century ago.

A suppressed quiver of excitement passed
through the small group of Camp Fire girls.

In her seat nearest the stage Sally Ashton
bit her lips to hide their trembling, feeling
her cheeks suddenly flame.  She had been
scarcely aware of the conversation going on
about her, or that the eyes of a number of
persons in the audience had been admiringly
turned toward her.  She wore a dress of
rose-colored net with no trimming save a
broad satin girdle of the same shade.

Vera and Alice Ashton were in white,
Mrs. Graham in an amber satin with a
string of topazes about her throat, her
wonderful auburn hair exquisitely arranged,
her skin of a beautiful warm clearness, was
more lovely than the girl of years before.

Waiting to see the curtain rise she was
the Betty Ashton of long ago, who had
been one of the first persons to believe in
the genius of the girl, Polly O'Neill, always
her dearest friend.

"I have not seen Polly act for so long a
time, Bettina, I am almost as excited as if
this was her début night.  Yet Polly is sure
enough of her laurels these days!" Mrs. Graham
whispered.

Then the curtain rose.

The first scene disclosed a small cabin
set on a green hillside with a miniature
lake in front.

A girl in a green skirt, a white blouse and
a green velvet bodice is seen seated on the
grass near the water.  She is slowly crooning
a love song with the words scarcely
audible.

Finally becoming impatient, she rises and
wanders about, a frown on her face, a
pathetic droop to her slim figure.

"Mrs. Burton looks about sixteen, doesn't
she?  Younger than any one of you!" David
Hale murmured.

Bettina paid not the slightest attention
to his remark, and scarcely heard it, as at
this moment a second figure entered the
stage, a boy who is about to set forth on a
journey; one recognizes this from his
costume before any words are exchanged.
He has come to say good-by.

The first act is devoted to their farewell.
One learns that the girl is to be left behind
with an old aunt who has been her foster
mother, while the boy goes to the United
States to seek a fortune for them both.

"Mother," Bettina said softly when the
curtain had fallen, "don't you think Tante
makes the parting between herself and her
lover too tragic?  It seems to me perfectly
natural and there is no special reason for
being unhappy, yet just because of her gift
for expressing emotion she seems the most
pathetic figure in the world as he goes
away and leaves her."

Mrs. Graham smiled and shook her
head, but made no effort to conceal the
tears in her eyes.

"Perhaps you are right, Bettina, I don't
know.  Polly did not believe you Camp
Fire girls would care for her play.  It
begins in a more sentimental age than the
present one.  Fifteen years elapse,
remember, between the first and the second act.
Perhaps the modern girl would not regard
the separation from her lover so seriously;
she has more interests, more occupations,
and sometimes I wonder if love may not
mean less to her; I am not sure.

"The girl whom Polly portrays is left
utterly alone, save for the old woman, who,
we have learned, is harsh and querulous.
She has only her dream and her affection."

Talking to Bettina alone, Mrs. Graham
discovered that, as the applause died away,
the other members of the box party were
listening to her little speech.

"I agree with Bettina," Alice Ashton
interposed.

"See here, Mrs. Graham, if you believe
in sentiment don't look for it among girls
these days," Robert Burton protested.  "If
you want to know the kind of impression
that parting scene of Mrs. Burton's inspires,
ask any one of the three fellows in your
party to-night.  If I cared for a girl and
was compelled to leave her for an indefinite
length of time, I tell you I should expect
her to feel as the heroine does in this play.
If she didn't feel that way, I would not
believe in her love."

Mrs. Graham arose.

"I'll leave you to argue the point without
me.  I want to speak to Mrs. Burton for a
few moments and she asked that no one
else come behind the scenes until the
performance is over."

Immediately David Hale slipped into
the chair beside Bettina, while Robert
Burton moved forward to talk with Sally
Ashton who seemed apart from the others.
Allan Drain joined Alice and Vera.

"It cannot be possible, Bettina, that you
are not returning to Washington to spend
the winter," David Hale remarked in a low
tone of voice.  "Your mother spoke of it
to me and then said perhaps you would
explain to me yourself."

Bettina flushed, as the subject was not
an altogether happy one and she was a
little annoyed at its introduction at this
instant.

"Why no, I believe not, anyhow not for
some time.  A group of the Sunrise Camp
Fire girls has taken a little apartment
together in New York and we are planning to
work and study here.  We are not to be
with our Camp Fire guardian.  In fact we
are not even to have a chaperon with us
permanently.  You remember Miss Patricia
Lord; one is not apt to forget Miss
Patricia.  She has a house near Boston and
is to appear now and then to see how we
are getting on.  Alice Ashton and Sally,
and Vera Lagerloff made the plan for the
winter originally and are allowing my little
English Camp Fire girl and me to join them.
I am to do some studying, but what I shall
like much more, I am to work in one of the
settlement houses on the East Side.  I
shall try to organize new Camp Fire clubs,
as I don't believe there are many of them
in that neighborhood."

David Hale stared at his companion incredulously.

"You cannot mean you prefer a winter
of this kind to making your début in
Washington, where you would be invited
everywhere!  I don't suppose it occurs to you,
or that it makes any difference, but I am
bitterly disappointed?"

"Oh, you will have mother and
Marguerite Arnot who will more than
compensate for my absence.  You know I
long have hated the prospect of having to
come out in society.  I am too serious, I
suppose, although I realize this is not an
attractive trait of character.  But, David
Hale, do you recall how much you used to
talk to me of your ambitions for the future
in the days we knew each other in France?
Well, I don't see why I am not allowed an
ambition of my own even if I am not gifted.
I have always been more interested in the
Camp Fire organization than the other
Sunrise Camp Fire girls.  Now I see an
opportunity to enlarge its influence along
with other work I am undertaking.  Mother
did not approve at first, but she is an angel
and has finally agreed.  You see she was
once upon a time a Camp Fire girl herself."

At Bettina's indifference to his point of
view David frowned.

"Well, your mother is right; the new girl
is hard to understand, even if one happens
to belong to her generation; that is, hard for
a fellow like me!  I--"

Bettina was not paying a great deal of
attention.  In the alcove at the front of
the box Sally Ashton and Robert Burton
were laughing and talking together, Sally
wearing her usual demure expression which
could change to sudden gaiety.  Evidently
her companion admired her.

Her mother's return to her place and
David Hale's vacating it, distracted
Bettina's attention; moreover, the bell was
ringing to announce the second act of the
drama.

Fifteen years have gone by, but now for
the first time the traveler, who had departed
as a boy, is returning to the Irish village
high up among the lakes and hills.

The report has come back that he has
become wealthy and the village is preparing
to welcome him.  Hovering on the outskirts
of the crowd one discovers the girl,
no longer young, with whom he had parted
many years before.  She has not heard
from him in a decade.  Still she is interested
and anxious to know if he will remember
her, or if by any chance he may still care a
little.  She never has forgotten.  Some
misunderstanding may have divided them,
which a few words, a touching of the hands,
a meeting of the eyes may explain.

The hero returns.  He has forgotten and
even fails to recognize the girl who
represented his youthful romance, is shocked by
the change in her when she recalls herself
to his memory.

At the close of the act she goes back to
the little cabin and the lake and the green
hillside, where she has lived alone these
ten years, the old aunt having died.

The pathos of the years of waiting has
departed.  The meeting in the village has
ended an old illusion.

In the third and last act the heroine has
established herself in a picturesque little
house in the town, where she has gathered
about her many friends.  She is witty and
gay, her clothes are pretty and fashionable.
In the lonely years she has read a great
deal and has interested herself in politics.
The friends and admirers she might have
had, save for her faithfulness to a memory,
are discovered around her, among them the
man, who so easily had forgotten his
plighted word.  In the end he proposes a
second time and is refused.

"Love has no value without faith and I
have no faith in you;" with this line the
drama closes.

"The play is delightful and Polly reveals
all her gifts of laughter and tears, nevertheless
it leaves one dissatisfied," Mrs. Graham
insisted, as she allowed Allan Drain to help
her with her coat.  "Allan, in your new
play give us a happier ending."

"My dear mother, what a sentimentalist
you are!  I could not imagine a more
delicious climax.  My sex is avenged!"
Bettina replied.  "Come, let us go back
behind the scenes and offer our congratulations!"

.. _`"My Dear Mother, What a Sentimentalist You Are"`:

.. figure:: images/img-089.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "My Dear Mother, What a Sentimentalist You Are."

   "My Dear Mother, What a Sentimentalist You Are."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE APARTMENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE APARTMENT

.. vspace:: 2

The sitting-room was scrupulously
clean.  The Camp Fire candles,
representing work, health and love
were on the mantel, but unlighted; a small
fire was burning in the grate.

At one side stood a tea table with the
arrangements for tea-cups and saucers,
the tea kettle and alcohol lamp.  At the
moment the room was empty.

Then a door swung open and a girl
entered wearing a ceremonial Camp Fire
costume, her strings of honor beads and
insignia of the highest rank, but over her
dress a blue apron which came up to her
throat and down to her ankles.

Her hair was carefully arranged, parted
at one side and drawn smoothly down, yet
little tendrils of brown hair had escaped
and her face was warmly Hushed.

Seating herself in a low chair she extended
her feet toward the small blaze.

"The girls are late this afternoon, just
because there was a particular reason why
they should be early," she remarked in a
maternal tone of voice, a little absurd in
view of her appearance.

During the past few months Sally Ashton
had been presiding over the small apartment
in New York which sheltered a group
of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls.

Getting up, she now walked over toward
the window.  In the distance one could
catch a glimpse of the Columbia College
buildings and in another direction the dome
of the great, unfinished Cathedral.  The
winter afternoon was clear and cold.

Returning to her former place, after a
glance at the clock, Sally drew a letter from
the pocket of her blouse and began reading
it.  This must have been a second or third
reading since the envelope had disappeared.

Nevertheless, the letter plainly occasioned
her no happiness, for she frowned, bit her
lips and looked as if only a severe determination
against any display of weakness saved
her from tears.

"I have not heard from Dan Webster in
a month.  Now he has written me exactly
one page which says nothing at all except
that he is so busy and so tired at the end of
each day that any letter he could write
would only bore me.  He is kind enough
to hope we may meet in the spring in the
'House by the Blue Lagoon.'  And this
when I was foolish enough to think that
Dan actually cared for me when we were
together last winter!"

"I do wish I were not one of the persons
who cares for only a few people!  No one
understands, or believes this of me, save
Tante, and she is too busy this winter to be
disturbed by Camp Fire confidences, even
though she remains our guardian.  I wonder
if she will be here this afternoon?  As for
Dan, I suppose I must stop thinking of
him in spite of the fact that we are such
old friends."

There was a little sound of a key scraping
in a lock.  Thrusting her letter inside her
pocket, Sally arose hastily.

"Sally, are we first to return home?"
Bettina Graham's voice inquired.  "I was
delayed at the Neighborhood House a
quarter of an hour longer than usual.  Then
I had to make a special effort to persuade
the children to allow Elce to come with me.
We had been having a lecture on birds
and she attempting to reproduce certain of
the bird sounds and to teach them to the
other children.  I wish you had been with
us.  You have not been lonely?"  Bettina
observed an unaccustomed expression on
the other girl's face.

As if slightly annoyed by the suggestion,
Sally shook her head.

"No, certainly not; I am never lonely, I
have had everything arranged for our Camp
Fire meeting and for tea afterwards for so
long that I am tired waiting."

"Very well, Elce and I will change into
our Camp Fire costumes and be with you
in a few moments.  I am surprised Vera
and Alice are so late!  I hoped Tante and
Juliet Temple would have arrived.  By the
way, Sally, what do you think of admitting
Juliet into our Sunrise Camp Fire?  We
have known her so many months that I am
convinced she and Tante must both expect
it, although they have not said so definitely.
If we have an opportunity before they
arrive, suppose we discuss the question."

Bettina Graham's conversation had been
continued from inside her own bedroom,
with the door opening into the sitting-room
which adjoined it.  In fact the six-room
apartment the Sunrise Camp Fire girls
were sharing for the winter, was so built
that the three bedrooms and kitchen opened
into a single large room.  This served as
their dining-room, sitting-room and
reception room.  A small room, apart from the
others, Miss Patricia Lord's room, could
be used as a study the greater portion of
the time, since Miss Patricia was rarely in
New York.

Only twice in the last few months had
she appeared unexpectedly.  Confessing
herself as satisfied with the life the girls
were leading and the work they were
accomplishing, almost immediately she had
returned to her home near Boston, never at
any time mentioning Mrs. Burton's name,
even to make an inquiry concerning her health.

The little apartment was comfortable.
There were no signs of the wealth and
luxury with which in the past, during the
periods when their guardian was with them,
Miss Patricia had surrounded the Sunrise
Camp Fire.  This, Miss Patricia explained,
was due to two reasons.  The erection of a
home for French war orphans in one of the
devastated regions of France was absorbing
more of her capital than she had anticipated;
moreover, she wished the girls to live simply
and to resist the temptation of the worldliness
of the city she professed to abhor.

The front door of the little apartment
now opened a second time.  Carrying
several books under her arm and a package
in her hand, Vera entered.

"Sorry to have been delayed, Sally, but
I had to go several places before I could
find the kind of cake you said you wished
for tea.  I wanted to help you get things
ready; you seem to do so much more work
these days than the rest of us in spite of
our classes and Bettina's social settlement."

"You are not the last, Vera.  Where is
Alice?  I thought you would come home
together."

Vera smiled; there was a unique quality
in her appearance which made her interesting
always, even if she were handsome to
only a few persons.  In her large eyes with
their heavy lashes, her wide mouth and
irregular nose there was a charm of
character and intelligence more marked than
conventional beauty.

"Alice and I said farewell half an hour
ago and she was to hurry home.  I saw her
stop to speak to her cousin, Philip Stead, for
a moment and I suppose they have not
been able to separate.  Dear me, I hoped
that Alice and I were to remain eternal
friends without masculine interference, but
these last few weeks Alice is failing me!
She insists that she is only friendly with
Philip Stead because he is her cousin and
a stranger in New York, and lonely."

"Never mind, Vera, you may have me
to take Alice's place.  I shall never desert
you.  I am through with all masculine
friendships forever, besides their being
through with me!" Sally Ashton returned,
thinking of the letter she had just finished
re-reading.  At the same time she extended
her hand for the package.

"Thanks for the cake, but I did find time
to make the kind Tante specially likes!
However, we will manage to get through
with both.  You girls are becoming so
learned as college students that I try to
cling to the few useful feminine arts which
represent my only talents."

"And the greatest of us is Sally!"
Bettina Graham exclaimed, coming into
the sitting-room, clad in her Camp Fire
costume.  "There is Alice at the door.
Suppose we light our candles and begin our
Camp Fire meeting, while she slips into her
Camp Fire dress.  Tante told us not to
await her arrival.  She is too uncertain of
coming.  And besides I hope we may have
an opportunity to discuss the addition of
Juliet Temple to our Sunrise Camp Fire
club.  We have had this in mind for some
time.  Is it our duty to add to our old group
now so many of the original group have
vanished?  Juliet Temple has lived in the
same house with us and is at present living
with our Camp Fire guardian, so she
seems the most natural person to invite."

A few moments later, when the business
had been disposed of, Alice Ashton,
continuing the subject Bettina had introduced,
said slowly, with the seriousness
characteristic of her:

"I feel as you girls do about Juliet
Temple.  I never have really liked her,
although it would be difficult to say why.
Perhaps it is because she has been so
reticent about her past history and revealed
so little interest in us.  I feel that she does
not especially desire to become a member
of our Sunrise Camp Fire.  She only wishes
it because Tante wishes it and is our
guardian.  Possibly you girls may not
agree with me, but now and then I have
been afraid that my own distrust is largely
jealousy.  Juliet seems to have been able
to make herself useful to Tante in ways
none of us has succeeded in doing.  Of late
she depends upon her for a great variety of
things."

Sally Ashton smiled.

"Good old Alice, of course we realize
that we are jealous of Juliet Temple!  Are
you actually only beginning to be conscious
of the fact?  Now I for one am in favor of
asking her to become one of our Camp Fire
girls for certain reasons I do not care to
divulge at present.  As I am more candid
than the rest of you, besides having a less
agreeable disposition, I want to say frankly
that I shall be glad when for any cause
Juliet and Tante separate.  Aunt Patricia
has always disliked her and believes she
has interfered with their devoted relation.
I think she remains one of the reasons why
Aunt Patricia refuses to be even friendly
with Tante, when she is eating her heart
out with loneliness and hurt pride.  But
goodness, there is the door bell and doubtless
Juliet is outside!  A reflection on our Camp
Fire to be caught gossiping!  Now if Tante
suggests our inviting Juliet Temple to join
our Sunrise Camp Fire group, and if Juliet
wishes it and can pass the requisite tests, I
see no reason we can offer for not including
her.  For a good many reasons I think it
may be wiser to learn to know her better.
Please put fresh wood on the fire, I'll open
the door."

The following moment the Camp Fire
guardian entered the room, followed by
Sally Ashton, Juliet Temple and a third girl.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ENIGMA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ENIGMA

.. vspace:: 2

Half an hour after, seated at the
tea table, Sally Ashton was
presiding over the serving of tea.  She
had agreed to relieve the Sunrise Camp
Fire guardian of the responsibility in order
that she might be able to talk more freely.

A few feet away, surrounded by the other
girls, Mrs. Burton was occasionally drinking
her tea, but more frequently answering
or asking questions.  Her custom was to
devote one afternoon each week to the
ceremonial meeting of the Sunrise Camp
Fire.  Now and then her visits were
interrupted and until to-day she had not been
present in several weeks at one of the
councils.

Dressed in exquisite taste in olive green,
trimmed in an odd, oriental embroidery of
green and gold, her dark hair simply
dressed, her health entirely restored, the
Camp Fire guardian appeared not more
than ten years older than the oldest of her
group of girls.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you
came directly to us, Gill, without even
waiting to telegraph," she was saying at
this instant, speaking to the third girl who
had entered the little apartment with her
only a short time before.  She was in deep
mourning.

"You will stay on here with us at least
until you can make some arrangement you
like better," Bettina Graham added,
slipping her hand inside her companion's and
looking at her with an expression of
sympathy and affection.

For the first time in their acquaintance
Mary Gilchrist's eyes filled with tears.

"I knew no one else would be so kind,
or give me such help, so, as soon after my
father's death as I could arrange my affairs
I started east.  But I did write and gave
the letter to one of the men on the place to
mail.  We are several miles from a post-office
and I wanted it to go at once.  He
must have forgotten, so the letter will
probably arrive later.

"I have scarcely any relatives.  My
father left the farm in Kansas to me.  Some
day I shall go back and try to become a
successful farmer, but when that time
arrives I hope to take all the Sunrise Camp
Fire home with me.  At present I felt that
I could not live on in the big empty house
alone, so I left one of our men in charge
and came to you.  I know I failed to live
up to the ideals of our Camp Fire when we
were together last winter at Half Moon
Lake, yet I believe you realize I shall try
not to fail again."

"My dear Gill," Sally announced from
her place of honor at the tea table, "you
have always taken the attitude that no
one of us ever committed a fault in our
Camp Fire life together until you failed to
confess last winter to Allan Drain that
accidentally you had thrown away the
manuscripts of his poems.  You did
confess finally so why not forget the whole
occurrence!  Certainly you are to live here
with us this winter and occupy the room
with me; Vera and Alice are together and
Bettina and Elce, so I have been alone.
Tante is so occupied with her work you
will be less lonely with us and Miss Patricia
I know will be delighted."

"Nevertheless, Sally, don't you think
Gill had best be with me for a few weeks, or
a few months, until she has rested?" the
Camp Fire guardian protested glancing at
the girl in whom the past few months had
wrought such changes.

Gill's former air of almost boyish strength
and vigor had vanished.  Her cheeks were
sunken, her eyes had lost their gaiety, even
the characteristic light sprinkling of freckles,
due to her constant outdoor life, were gone.

Many weeks Mary Gilchrist had nursed
her father with a completeness of devotion
that had left no opportunity for an hour
away from him.

"No, certainly not, Tante; Gill will be a
great deal better off here with us.  I am
sure she would be lonely with you; you are
so busy these days and have so many
strange people calling on you.  There
would be no one with whom Gill could talk,
or who would look after her as I shall.  I
believe she needs being taken care of for a
time."

Mrs. Burton glanced toward Sally, frowning.

"You forget, Sally, Juliet Temple lives
with me, and Gill would not have to be
alone when I cannot be with her.  Juliet
takes wonderfully good care of me and I
am sure would enjoy transferring her
services to some one who has a better right to
them.  I am afraid I am growing lazy with
Juliet looking after my business affairs,
writing my notes and seeing that I am
punctual for my engagements.  In spite of
my being a Camp Fire guardian and
struggling to conquer all my faults of
character in order to be a proper example to
you girls, I am afraid punctuality remains
an effort.  But Gill of course must do what
she likes.  I only wish her to realize I want
to have her, if she chooses to be with Juliet
and me.  Juliet is not a member of the
Sunrise Camp Fire, but may be some day."

The grating of a key in the front door
lock prevented further conversation at the
moment.

Sally arose from the tea table.

"I wonder who that can be?  No one
has a key to our apartment except our own
family and no one is away from home!"

The instant later a familiar step was
heard in the hall and then a tall, spare
figure entered the sitting-room.

"Aunt Patricia Lord, who dreamed you
were in New York and how glad we are to
see you!  Come and sit down and let me
give you your tea at once, I know it is tea
you always wish after a journey!" Sally
exclaimed, putting her arms about the
elderly spinster and embracing her.

"Sure and I do, my dear," Miss Patricia
agreed, relaxing into a mild Irish brogue,
which with her was always a sign of especial
satisfaction.  "And glad I am to arrive at
a Camp Fire meeting.  Perhaps it was my
duty to have let you know of my coming,
but of a sudden I grew so lonely I could not
wait to see what mischief you were up to at
present.  If my little room is occupied I'll
go to a hotel to-night and come to see you
to-morrow."

Her usual sternness relaxed, Miss Patricia
looked from one member of the little
group to the other.  Suddenly her face
stiffened and hardened.

The Camp Fire guardian had risen and
was moving toward her with both hands
outstretched in a lovely, pleading gesture.

"Dear Aunt Patricia, surely you will
speak to me?  What have I done to offend
you so deeply?  Do you realize that you
have not replied to one of my letters or
allowed me to see you since we parted at
Half Moon Lake?"

"I realize it perfectly, Polly, and I refuse
to speak to no one.  How do you do.  You
may give my love to your husband.  Sally,
if it is not too much trouble I prefer to go
to my room and have my tea there.  Gill,
is that you?  Come and kiss me, I was
sorry to hear of your loss."

Miss Patricia was turning away when
the Camp Fire guardian spoke a second time.

"Don't go, Aunt Patricia, on my account.
I will leave at once.  Our Camp Fire meeting
is over and the girls will wish to talk
with you.  I wonder if you know how it
hurts me for you to be unwilling to remain
in the same room with me?  Once I thought
you cared for me--a little."

Without replying the gaunt figure moved
away, Sally following her.

Bettina Graham put her arm about the
younger woman.

"You are not to go, Tante, we will not
allow it.  Aunt Patricia is too absurd and
unkind!  It would be difficult to forgive
her, if one did not appreciate that she is
suffering more than any one else.  Besides,
you promised to recite for us before you left."

Mrs. Burton made a swift gesture

"Please release me from my promise, I
don't feel that I can just now.  Aunt
Patricia's attitude toward me makes me
more unhappy than any one knows.  Juliet,
I prefer to go home alone and I wish to
walk.  Will you stay and talk to the girls
about becoming a member of their Sunrise
Camp Fire.  If they are willing and you
will conform to the Camp Fire requirements
I should like it very much."

With Bettina's assistance putting on her
hat and coat, Mrs. Burton lingered a
moment longer.

"Will you really be disappointed if I do
not recite for you?  I don't wish to be
selfish and shall keep Aunt Patricia away
from you only a few moments more.

"The other day I came across this poem
written by an old friend of mine.  I shall
only repeat a part of it, I don't suppose
if Aunt Patricia is in her room that I shall
annoy her.  I'll speak quietly."

If Mrs. Burton's tone was low, her voice
held the quality that no one who heard it
ever forgot.

The little Camp Fire sitting-room was
now in shadow with only the light of the
dying fire and the flickering candles.

   |  "Be with us, Beauty, through the toil of life,
   |    Through youth and through the everlasting years,
   |  That we may live unwearied by the strife
   |    Knowing the wisdom of laughter and tears.

   |  "Be with us, Duty, while we seek the goal,
   |    Honor and fame, courage and high desire,
   |  Sister of Beauty, as the mortal soul
   |    Kindles the body with her sacred fire."
   |

There was a moment of silence as
Mrs. Burton ended.  Then with a wave of her
hand and a few words of farewell, she went
quickly away.

Immediately after Sally returned.

"I am sorry not to have been able to say
good-by to Tante, but Aunt Patricia kept
me standing in the hall while she listened
hungrily to her every word.  She then shut
me out of her room.  I never knew any one
who was behaving more foolishly, and I
should tell her so, if I dared."

"Juliet Temple, now that we have an
opportunity, would you care to discuss
becoming a member of our Camp Fire?  We
have never understood whether you really
wished it."

At Sally's words the other girls resumed
their positions on their ceremonial cushions,
which left the one girl an outsider.  She
remained standing, facing them.

"Won't you please be seated," Bettina
invited, acting as spokesman for her Camp
Fire group which was her usual task.

"You know of course that our guardian
desires you to become a member of our
Camp Fire and what her wish and influence
mean, but the fact remains that you have
never shown any interest in the organization
or suggested in any way that you would
care to join us.  After spending several
months with us at Half Moon Lake you
know something of our requirements and
our ideals.  Will you please be perfectly
candid?"

At Bettina's request, Juliet Temple had
not sat down.

Instead she stood looking down at the
six girls as if slightly amused by Bettina's
speech.

Never at any time in her memory had
she cared for intimate girl friends.  Never
had she cared less for one than at the present
time.  Among the girls before her of varying
tastes and temperaments not one attracted her.

"You are very kind and I am sure Mrs. Burton
intends being equally so and yet I
feel it best I should not become a member
of your Sunrise Camp Fire.  You know
nothing of my history, little of my
disposition and tastes and I might prove entirely
uncongenial to you.  I appreciate that you
are inviting me, not on my account, but on
Mrs. Burton's and yet I am none the less
grateful.  There are certain obligations in
the Camp Fire, certain promises I do not
feel willing to make.  I am going to ask one
favor.  Please do not speak of this to
Mrs. Burton; allow me to explain my position
to her.  She may be disappointed and her
friendship means a great deal to me, more
than any one of you can realize."

"Why can't we realize it?  I think I do
better than you imagine," Sally Ashton
returned, looking closely at the girl who
had just finished speaking.  "I don't mean
to be unkind and naturally we don't wish
you to join our Camp Fire circle unless it
would give you a great deal of pleasure
and be a help to you as well.  I do
understand, however, that you wish to gain a
great deal from your association with our
Camp Fire guardian and to separate her
from us as much as possible.  We are not
really so stupid as you consider us.  But
there, I am extremely sorry to have been
rude to you, and Mrs. Burton would be
angry," Sally confessed.

Alice Ashton rose and slipped her arm
through the other girl's.

It was dark outside and twilight in the
little room.

"Will you forgive Sally?  No one of us
agrees with her and come and see us
whenever you have time.  Then we shall learn
to understand one another better and you
may change your mind about our Camp Fire."

"Sally, it was you who suggested that we
invite Juliet Temple to join our Camp Fire
group.  I cannot understand your behavior,"
Bettina Graham said reproachfully
when the unwelcome visitor had disappeared.

Sally looked uncommonly penitent.

"I wanted to ask her simply because I
felt sure she would decline.  She has some
reason for not desiring any of us to know
her too intimately.  I am sure I regret
being rude to her.  Unexpectedly I seem
to have lost my temper."

"Undoubtedly you did, Sally, and she
was our guest," Bettina protested.

She was interrupted by the re-entrance
of Miss Patricia into the room.  Vera
switched on the electric light and Miss
Patricia gave a sigh of relief.

"I am glad that girl has gone; I don't
trust her for some reason.  But there, I
suppose I resent Polly's affection and
dependence upon her.  It is very odd.  At
first she appeared to have no force of
character, but she is cleverer than I gave her
credit for; I sometimes fear she is cleverer
than any one of us.  Without her being
aware of it, from the first moment of their
acquaintance she has flattered Polly, when
I employed too much the other method.
Well, I am glad she is apparently so devoted
to her interests.  Polly no longer has any
sense of affection or of duty toward me."

Bettina rose and placed her arm about
the older woman, drawing her down into
the most comfortable chair.

"Nonsense, Aunt Patricia, nothing
separates you from Tante save your own
obstinacy and self-will.  Forgive me, but
I must say it.  Juliet Temple is only an
excuse.  Tante has no special affection for
her.  Juliet has her own living to make and
few friends, and Tante finds her fairly useful
and wishes to be kind.  But she is devoted
to you and your unkindness to her is her
one sorrow in her happy and successful
winter.  Certainly she deserves her success,
after so long a sacrifice of her time
and talent to us."

"We will not discuss my relation with
Polly, Bettina.  Girls, change your
costumes and let us go out for dinner.  It is
too late to prepare anything at home."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOUSE BY THE BLUE LAGOON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOUSE BY THE BLUE LAGOON

.. vspace:: 2

"It is enchanting, Betty.  How in the
world did you and Anthony make
the discovery?"

"By accident, dear.  We were with some
friends on a yacht sailing about in the bay,
when afar off I spied this tiny island and
asked if we might anchor here for an hour
and investigate.

"One could not see the house from the
shore, but Anthony and I followed the line
of the lagoon until on an autumn afternoon
we found it in its deserted splendor.  It is
a theory of mine, Polly, that each one of us
possesses a house of dreams.  As soon as
my eyes fell upon this, I recognized it as
mine.  But don't let me tire you either
with my enthusiasm, or by trying to make
you see everything at once.  Were I wise
I should keep a fresh attraction for each
day that I might have you with me the longer."

The two friends were walking about in
an open space of lawn before a house built
like an English manor house.  The house
had fallen into partial decay; on this spring
day pale green tendrils of ivy climbed the
old walls, in the eaves birds were building
their nests, here and there bits of the
stone were crumbling away.

"We shall never have the money to rebuild
the place and have the house appear
as it must have a hundred years ago, but I
am not altogether sorry.  When Anthony
found the old place was for sale and the
whole of the little island he told me that if
we bought it I must never expect this.  We
only hope to keep it from further destruction."

"You don't mean that you actually own
the whole of this island, Betty, all these
magnificent trees, the blue lagoon, the shore
line with its view of the sea?  Let us walk
down to the lagoon and rest for a few
moments.  I am more tired than I realized
after last night's journey.  As soon as it is
warm enough I shall crawl into a small boat
and anchor myself in the lagoon for days
and nights, when you have grown weary of
my society.  This might be known as a
place of heavenly rest.  In sailing across to
the island so late yesterday afternoon, I
only had a brief glimpse of the lagoon,
which cuts into the island from the bay
does it not, as if it were an arm reaching
into the shore."

Betty Graham nodded.

"Yes, the island is nearly a complete,
circle.  One can start from a bank of the
lagoon, follow the shore line and return to
the opposite bank.  Originally the lagoon
was to form an anchorage for boats without
having to depend on the tides.  Once the
channel was dug the water has forced its
way in until the lagoon has become
surprisingly deep.  You must promise me to
be careful, Polly.  I can well imagine your
dreaming in your boat and being carried out
into the bay and then on toward the sea."

"Well, dear, would it be a bad way of
ending things?  Yet I believe I would rather
float into your blue lagoon from the sea
than away from it.  I wonder if the depth
of the water makes it appear blue as the
waters in the Tropics?  Please tell the
Camp Fire girls to be careful.  What a
magical place to bring a lot of people
together in!  I was sorry not to come to you
with the Camp Fire girls, but had to give
a half dozen more performances of 'A Tide
in the Affairs', before my season ended.  It
was difficult at best, Betty, dear, to close
things up while the play was in the height
of its popularity.  I never could have
managed save that you and Richard saw to it
that in my original contract I was to be
released from playing in the spring.  I am
supposed to put the same play on next fall,
yet I really don't wish to.  I was never
enthusiastic over it."

"I was not either, Polly, as I told you.
Why not play something else?  It was
never big enough for you!"

"All very well, Betty Graham, but you
know nothing of the difficulty of discovering
a worth-while play in accord with one's
personality or talents.  The good fortune
of a real play comes only once or twice in a
lifetime."

Mrs. Graham hesitated.

"Polly, while you are here do me a favor.
In a rash moment I told Allan Drain, our
young poet-playwright, to bring the
manuscript of his latest effort and that if you
were in a good humor you might permit
him to read it to you.  There is no reason
to believe his play would be any worse than
other plays one has seen.  The boy is very
ambitious and I think clever and I have
invited him for several weeks, so you will
have a chance to rest beforehand."

Mrs. Burton stopped and frowned.

"Betty, dear, please don't ask this of me.
Of course if you make it a favor to you, I
have no choice but to agree.  But I am so
tired and shall never be rested in a few
weeks.  Of course this is not the real
trouble.  You don't know how disagreeable
it is to have youthful geniuses read you
their efforts and then be obliged to tell them
the truth about their work, or at least the
truth as one sees it.  It hurts them horribly
when you cannot admire what they have
done and often they never forgive you.
Besides, I am a sympathetic person and
really hate having to wound them.  As for
your young playwright, Allan Drain, to
whom you have taken an unaccountable
fancy, I several times allowed him to read
his efforts to me during the winter when we
were shut up in the mountains.[\*]  I was not
busy then and more amiable.  His work
was only fairly good; really he did not
reveal exceptional ability.  I am cross and
tired now and it would only destroy the
boy's pleasure and mine to have to
disappoint him.  I cannot have him encouraged
in the idea that I would ever consider one
of his youthful effusions.  You are not
disappointed, are you?"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake."

.. vspace:: 2

"A little, Polly, but the main thing is that
you must not be worried, or have anything
affect the pleasure of your first visit to me
in 'The House by the Blue Lagoon'.  I hope
you won't mind the young people."

Mrs. Burton laughed.

"If you mean my Camp Fire girls, Betty,
I regard the speech as too impossible to
answer.  As for the youths whom you have
asked to entertain them, or be entertained
by them, I've an idea that no one of them
will have any attention or time to spare for
me.  Who is here?  Not coming down to
dinner last evening I am not sure of all the
names the girls poured into my ears."

"Oh, only the girls' special friends, Dan
Webster, David Hale, Allan Drain of course,
Philip Stead, Alice's and Sally's cousin, and
Robert Burton.  Bettina surprised me by
suggesting that I ask the young fellow whom
she met by accident in New York when she
was searching for you.  I wonder if she has
seen a great deal of him in the past winter?
Has she spoken of him to you?  He seems
a pleasant chap and admires Sally Ashton.
Do you know, Polly, I have half an idea
that David Hale is in love with Bettina, and
although she is absurdly young, now and
then I feel that I would rather she return
his affection and lead a woman's natural
existence than pursue this idea of social
service that the winter's experience, which
I hoped in a way might cure her, seems to
have deepened.  Anthony says David Hale
has a brilliant future ahead of him."

The two friends sat down on a low stone
bench a few feet from the lagoon.  In the
April sky small white clouds played at hide
and seek upon the field of blue, reflected in
the deeper blue of the water.

"And you would like Bettina, Betty dear,
to repeat your own life, marry a famous man
and be happy ever after?  Most parents
seem to want their children to repeat their
lives, if they have been at all happy and
successful.  Yet how few of them ever do!
Don't set your heart on this idea of Bettina
and David.  She does not care for him."

"Nonsense, Polly, how do you know!  I
believe she likes him extremely.  She used
to write me of him from France."

"Very well, I won't argue the question.
There is one person you have left out of
your house party, I am afraid purposely,
and for my sake I want you to relent.  You
did not tell me that I might bring Juliet
Temple with me, and I need her.  Do you
dislike her?  I never have understood the
situation; not one of my Camp Fire girls has
ever made a friend of her, Aunt Patricia is
violently prejudiced against her, only
Richard and I are fond of her.  I can scarcely
tell you how much she does for us both.
She is extremely clever and of late not only
has kept house for me, but attends to small
business matters that are so annoying.
She writes out all the checks for the
tradespeople and merely brings them to me to
sign, and oh, I scarcely know what she does
not attend to!  Richard is always
congratulating himself at having discovered and
brought her to me at Half Moon Lake.
The child does not mind doing what a maid
would do when I am very tired or very
busy, although of course I do not feel I
should allow this.  I have no right to ask
you a favor, have I, Betty, having just
refused the one you asked me?"

Betty Graham put her arm about her
companion whose frailty always gave her
a pang when the met again after any
length of parting.

"Oh, have your Juliet Temple if you wish
and are so dependent upon her.  You know
you can do anything you like so far as I am
concerned.  Yet I think you are making a
mistake to trust the girl to such an extent
and certainly you should not have her look
after your business affairs.  She might be
careless, and as you are extremely careless
yourself, Polly, and Richard not much better,
there might be unnecessary temptations.
I really believe you both do need Aunt
Patricia."

Mrs. Burton shrugged her shoulders.

"You did *not* succeed in inducing Aunt
Patricia to make you the visit while I am
here, did you?  I am sorry, although not
surprised.  Richard went to see her not
long ago and she seemed rather pathetically
pleased, made him stay in the house with
her and would hardly allow him out of her
sight.  She refused, however, to forgive me
for whatever imaginary wrong I have
committed.  She says now that she had grown
so old and difficult that I returned to the
stage largely in order to be rid of her and
that she refuses to be any further burden
upon me.  And this in view of the fact that
Aunt Patricia has taken care of me as if I
were a child, has lavished her wealth and
time and strength upon me and never
allowed me to do anything of any kind to
repay her.  Well, I am through with making
repeated efforts to have her forgive me,
for what I am not sure.  Alice Ashton and
Vera Lagerloff seem to have taken my place
and I trust she may find them more
satisfying than she ever did me.  At no time do
I remember Aunt Patricia's approving of
anything I ever thought or did."

"Don't talk as if you were a spoiled child,
Polly; at any moment you need Aunt
Patricia she will come to you at once."

Mrs. Burton shook her head.

"No, I shall never allow it, or accept any
favor from her again.  I told Richard this
when he returned and said Aunt Patricia
still declined to have anything to do with
me.  I asked him to write this to her, that
I should not trouble her at any time in the
future.  But about Juliet Temple!  The
child is alone in my New York apartment;
Richard is out of town on business for a
few days, and I am afraid she is lonely.
She has no friends and no relatives except a
brother, whom I am afraid, from what she
has told me, is not of much account.  She
seems fond of him, however, and they come
from this part of the country I believe; I
am not sure just where.  As for trusting
Juliet to attend to my business affairs, there
is an especial reason why I wish her to
appreciate that I have entire faith in her.  She
gave me her confidence upon an occasion
when there was no necessity for it and I
have always believed in her.  As far as
money goes, Betty, I am not rich enough
to be a temptation to anyone.  You know
that Richard and I made some unfortunate
investments after our return from France
and lost the small estate we had saved
between us.  You did not know that other
people were also involved and because
Richard was one of the officers of the
company, we both feel that we want to pay
back to them at least a portion of what they
lost.  I made a good deal of money last
winter, but have kept only what we need
for our personal expenses until fall, when I
start to work."

"Oh, Polly, you are so quixotic and so
unpractical!  Suppose you should fall ill
again?  But there, forgive me, I should not
have spoken of such a possibility.  When
we are both old and you have grown tired
of being famous and admired, will you come
here and live with me at my 'House by the
Blue Lagoon'?"

Mrs. Burton laughed.

"Yes, Betty dear, I'll hide somewhere in
one of your secret passages, while you
entertain house parties of distinguished persons
from Washington, or elsewhere--Senators,
Ambassadors, even Congressmen.  With
all my love for my work, it is you who are
admired and who care for society.  Small
wonder Bettina was never able to keep up
with you!  Here comes Bettina with her
shadows, Elce and the little girl she brought
from the settlement.  'Ardelia in Arcady'!  Do
you recall the old story of the child who
came from the city to the country and was
expected to care for it and did not?  It
was very amusing.  Bettina's latest protégé
is a pathetic little figure, with her crutch
and her city pallor, but she feels dreadfully
lost on your desert island amid all this
beauty and romance.  She is a little
daughter of the tenement!  I believe I can
understand her better than you or Bettina."

"Princess, what are our visitors doing?
Polly and I ran away for an hour's quiet
talk.  She is to learn to love our place
nearly as much as I do," Mrs. Graham
exclaimed.

Bettina Graham came nearer.  She looked
grave and sweet, although a little smile
showed at the corners of her lips.

"Oh, they are perfectly well entertained
without us, dear, and I thought Maida and
Elce needed my society for a little while.

"We have small hope of seeing much of
you and Tante for a few days until you have
grown accustomed to the wholly new experience
of being with each other.  You are
worse than lovers.

"Actually, mother, your house party has
accepted your suggestion and has set to
work to make you a garden, a new garden
where the old one has been this hundred or
more years.  It is a charming idea!  We
are to leave such shrubs and roses as will
bloom.  David Hale and Dan Webster have
taken charge and say we are to work two
hours every morning, before we are allowed
to do anything else--boat, or bathe, or fish,
or sail.  It is to be a memory or a
friendship garden, although we intend to find a
prettier and more original title.  Anyhow,
the garden is to commemorate our first
Camp Fire house party by the blue lagoon.
Isn't the place exquisite, Tante?  Sitting
here by the lagoon can one imagine the
poverty and sorrow I see every day in my
settlement work, or such an experience as
Maida's, whose father is responsible for her
lameness?  Forgive me, mother, I promised
myself not to speak of these things,
or even to think of them while I am on
your enchanted island."

"This is not my kingdom, Princess, but
yours when you will come home to it, yours
and Polly's.  It is only you people who
work for others who deserve enchanted
islands.  I am delighted to hear about my
new garden and my gardeners.  We must
send for all the flowers we can think of, as
April is the perfect month for planting.  Do
you know I always have wanted a blue
garden, I suppose because I have loved
blue more than any color all my life and
wondered why there were so few blue
flowers.  Suppose we plant only blue flowers
here by the blue lagoon.

"You stay here, dear, I must go and see
about luncheon.  Bring Polly back with
you.  I don't want her to go off alone to
explore our island and am afraid she has it
in mind.  One always has the feeling that
she will slip away from one somehow."

"No such good fortune, Betty!  Bettina,
while I think of it, mother has agreed to let
me have Juliet Temple here with me,
although I am afraid you girls do not want
her.  I wish you would not be so prejudiced
and unfair.  She will not be troublesome or
intrude on you I am sure, but you will try
and see that she has an agreeable time."

"Naturally, Tante, I am not apt to be
rude to a guest and will do what I can.
Your Camp Fire girls hoped you would be
willing to allow us to be with you and do
whatever you wished to have done for the
little time you are here.  If you cannot get
on without Juliet Temple, we shall of course
be friendly to her.  She has been unfriendly,
we never have."

"You are cross already, Bettina.  Will
you speak to Sally?  Obviously Sally does
not like Juliet, and Sally has a habit of
frankness.  Tell her I shall be hurt and
displeased if she is not especially kind.  Now
let us talk of something else.  Ask Elce and
your little lame girl to come and sit by us.

"Elce, if you will sing for me some day
all alone here by the blue lagoon, I'll recite
a poem to you about these old trees:

   |  "When by the spring's enchanting blue,
   |  You trace your slender leaves and few,
   |  Then do I wish myself re-born
   |  To lands of hope, to lands of morn.

   |  "And when your wear your rich attire,
   |  Your autumn garments touched with fire,
   |  I want again that ardent soul
   |  That dared the race and dreamed the goal.

   |  "But, oh, when leafless dark and high,
   |  You rise against this winter's sky,
   |  I hear God's word: "Stand still and see
   |  How fair is mine austerity.
   |

"Come, let us go back to the house, it
must be nearly lunch time."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ONE NIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   ONE NIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

The grounds surrounding the old
house were hung with Chinese lanterns.

Walking about in the semi-darkness were
groups of figures, ordinarily two in number.

In the big drawing-room the music had
just ceased, while the musicians were having
their supper and a brief rest.  Senator and
Mrs. Graham were giving an informal dance
for their daughter and house party.

Other guests had crossed over from the
mainland, which was not an hour's journey
in a motor boat or one of the small steamboats
that carried mail and provisions, but
was apt to be a long crossing in the
uncertainty of a sail, and almost impossible in
a rowboat, unless one were a singularly
strong oarsman.

There were half a dozen young officers
from the fort and as many girls from a
fashionable hotel on the Virginia coast.

"Sally, it has been utterly impossible to
have a word with you, to say nothing of a
dance!  A fellow likes a girl to be a good
dancer, but not so good that he never has
a chance with her.  I must say that you
and Robert Burton look pretty well
together, he dances almost as well as you do
and makes me feel awkward and clumsy.
Somehow I am surprised that you are such
a fine dancer, Sally, when you don't like
other kinds of exercise," Dan Webster concluded.

"If you are going to start our walk, Dan,
enumerating my faults, I do not intend to
go one step with you, although it is one of
your favorite amusements.  All very well
we have known each other a long time, but
I do not think that a sufficient excuse."

Arm in arm Sally Ashton and Dan Webster
were sauntering away from the veranda
toward a more deserted portion of the lawn.

Sally spoke in the demure tone and
manner, which oftentimes disturbed her
companion, since he was not able to guess
whether she were in earnest or amusing
herself at his expense.

"Nonsense, Sally, I could not enumerate
your faults for any length of time!  I only
think you possess two or three faults, and
sometimes, not often, I have been known to
speak of them.

"At present I cannot imagine what I have
said or done to annoy you, unless following
you around all evening and trying to induce
you to pay some slight attention to me has
troubled you.  In that case of course in
future I shall leave you alone.

"I joined the house party when it was
extremely difficult for me to be spared from
the farm, chiefly in order to see you.  I have
seen less of you than any one else and at
times this has not looked like an accident.
If this is true will you be kind enough to
be frank."

Sally gave her companion's arm a slight
squeeze.

"Don't be such a bear, Dan.  You always
were a surly small boy when you were
annoyed in the days we used to play
together.

"There is a hammock under the linden
trees; let us sit down if you do not mind,
I am a little tired after dancing so long.
You know perfectly well how much engaged
we all have been since our arrival at the
island.  You reproach me for not deliberately
separating myself from the others,
when I have not said a single word to you
for failing to write me a half dozen letters
all during the past winter.  I suppose you
were writing to so many other persons!"

"No such thing, Sally.  As you well know,
I simply can't write letters that are worth
a row of pins; they never seem to express
what I think or feel, and I am afraid of
boring you.  If I speak of something now,
you won't consider that I intend criticizing
you; I suppose I do keep more of a watch
on you than on other girls, because I am
more interested.  Twice lately you have
deserted every one in the house party and
gone off somewhere to some mysterious part
of the island alone.  Please don't repeat
this.  You see it does not look well and
worries me.  The island is fairly deserted,
but there are spots where fishing boats
might land, or people out for a holiday.
If you feel you want to be alone, I can
follow you and promise not to interfere in
any way."

In a hammock swung by chains in a small
grove of linden trees, Dan and Sally sat down.

The April night was surprisingly warm
with a breath of summer that comes now
and then in the southern spring.  The tiny
blooms of the trees made a shower of
fragrant gold about them.  From beyond blew
the salt breath of the sea.

Sally remained quiet a moment before
replying.

"You are very kind, Dan, I am sorry you
have noticed that I have gone away once
or twice alone.  I have not been in the
slightest danger and had a definite reason
for going.  I can't tell you what this is,
probably it is not of any consequence, yet I
must ask you under no circumstances to
follow me."

"And I decline to make you such a
promise, Sally, in fact I forbid your wandering
about the island alone.  If there is any
mystery connected with your behavior, I
thought you hated mysteries; in fact you
assured me that after your experience in
caring for Lieutenant Fleury[\*] in France,
you were through with all secrecy forever!"


[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France."


"There is no especial mystery in what I
am interested in at present, Dan, at least
nothing of importance.  Indeed, I am
indulging in a whim, and as I am doing no
one any harm I think I have the right.
Perhaps I shall not keep up my quest very
long, only a few days until I make a
discovery," she added, feeling a stiffening of
the figure beside her and appreciating,
without having to behold the firm line of the
lips.  She and Dan Webster had known
each other so many years that there were
traits of his character she thoroughly understood.

"Besides," she protested, as an afterthought,
"you have not the faintest right
to forbid my doing anything I wish."

"No, I suppose not," Dan returned, not
looking toward Sally, but at the old house
a short distance away, shadowy and stately
under the stars.  "I presume I never shall
have that right, even if you come to care
for me some day as I hope you may care.
Indeed, I almost believed you would when
we parted last, but now I see what an
ass I was.  I told you then I would not
speak of this until you were older and I had
made something of myself.  I never will
amount to much, Sally, I see that pretty
plainly here in comparison with only a
small group of other fellows.  David Hale
is the real thing, brilliant and ambitious and
knows what an educated man should know.
Allan Drain is the artist with his writing of
poetry and plays.  He talks in a way that
makes you sit up now and then, even when
you do not agree with him or get all he
means.  Philip Stead is a student and will
end by being a professor.  Robert Burton
I don't understand so well, although he has
something none of the rest of us have, not
just good looks and good manners, while I--well,
Sally, I only want to make things grow,
to watch the wheat ripen and turn gold,
the cows on the old New Hampshire hillsides
feeding beside their calves.  The farm
is double the size it was once and I intend
it shall be four times larger.  I mean to
gather men about me interested in making
agriculture what it should be and farmers'
lives the most independent and worth while.
When I am rich, rich as ever I am apt to
be, I plan to found an agricultural school
and to give the land and the benefit of the
experience I have had and my father and
grandfather before me.  Don't think I fail
to realize how dull this sounds; when I
speak of it most people yawn or struggle to
appear polite and change the subject.  I
don't care, it is only how you feel, Sally,
that matters.  You have had so much
experience and this past winter in New
York has changed you more even than the
years abroad.  Once upon a time you would
have granted the small favor I just asked
you, now you won't even do this for me."

"Dan, you *are* stupid; I wonder sometimes
if I shall ever make you understand
how dull you are on *one* particular subject.
At present I'd rather you would not know.
As for doing the favor you asked, I won't
because I have a reason which I believe
justifies my refusing.  You know how
obstinate I am, everybody who knows me
is of the same opinion on the subject.  Why
not try to trust me?  As to the effect the
past winter has had, I do feel older and
more self-reliant.  Mary Gilchrist was ill
almost the entire winter and I had the care
of her, then I was the housekeeper for the
Camp Fire girls.  Never apologize to me
for *your* stupidity, Dan, dear, which I don't
think is apparent to any one save you.
Among the Sunrise Camp Fire, no one
even thinks of disputing the recognized
fact that I am the least clever of all the
girls.  I do not even mind especially.  I
find life interesting and after all one
cannot make oneself over altogether!"


.. _`"I Wonder if I Shall Ever Make You Understand How Dull You Are on One Particular Subject"`:

.. figure:: images/img-139.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I Wonder if I Shall Ever Make You Understand How Dull You Are on One Particular Subject."

   "I Wonder if I Shall Ever Make You Understand How Dull You Are on One Particular Subject."


For the first time in the interview Dan
laughed, a good natured, boyish laugh, full
of strength and sweetness.

"If you are stupid, Sally, then I am proud
to be in the same company with you.  I
should like to know what Tante thinks of
you!  You may be less interested in books
and more in human beings."

In the half darkness Sally smiled.

A lantern in one of the trees overhead
swung and tilted so that the light shone
down on her face.

Sally wore her rose-colored net and had a
scarf of the same rose color about her
shoulders.  Tucked under her brown coil
of hair in the fashion of the women who
had danced in this old southern house and
paraded its lawns a century ago, was a pink
rose, a little crumpled now and faded.

Dan put up his hand and touched the
rose gently, one could scarcely have thought
there could be such gentleness in the strong
fingers.

"Give me your rose, please, Sally; I
don't know just why I want it, but I do.
I never could see much sense in fellows
wanting to hold on to things like this
before."

Sally jumped up suddenly and the little
rose fell to the ground.

"Please be careful, Dan, here comes
Tante and she may see you.  I don't know
what she would think."

The girl's movement arrested Mrs. Burton's
attention.

She was walking about in the silver night
with Senator Graham, whom she had known
many years before as a poor boy, with little
education, with nearly every handicap, lack
of family, of influence and position.  He was
now one of the distinguished men of the
country.

"Is that you, Sally and Dan?  May I
speak to you?  Anthony, go back to Betty
and see that she rests for a few moments,
she is the most tireless hostess in the world!
Sally and Dan will escort me to the house
if I am not able to walk the few yards alone.
And will you tell Betty that if I disappear
I have gone up to my own room.  I shall
listen to the music until the dancing ends
and then go to bed.  The boat goes back
at midnight, so I suppose the dancing can't
last much longer."

Mrs. Burton sat down in the hammock
between Sally and Dan, slipping a hand into
each of theirs.

Dan Webster was her nephew, the son of
her twin sister and of the man who had
been under the impression that he cared for
her before his discovery that they were
entirely unsuited, and that the sister, who
was her opposite in everything save her
personal appearance, was the real love of
his life.[\*]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows."

.. vspace:: 2

Sally Ashton was the daughter of two
friends of her girlhood.

With no children of her own, Mrs. Burton
cherished a deep affection for Sally and for
Dan, but for different reasons.  One reason
was the same--she had a feeling of dependence
upon them both.  Dan was nearly
like her son.  Sally Ashton, well, most
people who knew Sally intimately did
depend upon her, without being able to
explain why.

"Children, do a favor for me.  You'll
hate it, but Sally has promised.  Come with
me and find Juliet Temple and see if she is
having a good time.  If she is not you'll
dance with her, Dan, and make yourself
agreeable?  Juliet has not been here so long
as the rest of you and I am afraid feels
lonely.  She seems to spend most of her
time alone.  You like her well enough, don't
you, Dan?"

"Of course, Tante, she seems all right,
strikes me as clever.  She isn't about much;
when she is, it never occurred to me that
she would be interested in me.  If you are
fond of her I'll do my best."

Dan put his arm about Mrs. Burton's waist.

"You are coming to the farm to be with
us for a time when you finish your visit to
the 'House by the Blue Lagoon'?  Mother
will never forgive you and will perish of
jealousy if you do not.  She does not
enjoy the idea that you are fonder of Aunt
Betty than of your own twin sister.  We
both wish you would give up that plagued
stage and you and Uncle Richard live
with us until you are a little less like a
wraith.  But see here, Tante, I'll strike a
bargain with you.  Sally will have nothing
to do with me at present.  If you will
promise to bring her with you to the farm
for a visit this summer I shall devote myself
while I am here to your Juliet Temple, that
is, if she will allow it."

Mrs. Burton smiled.

"Dan, I suppose you know you are like
your father, only nicer.  I don't want you
to be so attentive as to deceive Juliet, only
to see that she has a good time.  I have
been looking for her for the past hour and
she does not seem to have danced with any one."

"Juliet may have gone for a walk, Tante,
I think I saw her a short time ago.  I have
not forgotten that you said you wished me
to have her in mind," Sally remarked.  In
her speech, or in her manner there was
nothing that was unusual, nevertheless both
Dan and the Camp Fire guardian were
aware of bewilderment.

"Do you mind walking about with me for
a few moments and trying to find her?  Of
course I know *you do* mind, but will you in
any case?" Mrs. Burton pleaded.

"I am a tiresome woman, Dan, to have
interrupted your talk with Sally, but I will
make it up to you some day.  Sally is
difficult, but worth the effort.  You must
promise me that you will say nothing to
her and even feel nothing for the next few
years, then I will be your warmest ally,"
Mrs. Burton whispered, walking close beside
the tall fellow who towered nearly a foot
above her, while Sally moved along the path
in front of them, a figure of rose and silver.

Half an hour later the Camp Fire guardian
was sitting in her room half reading,
half listening to the music and voices in the
house and garden beneath her open windows.

She was in her dressing gown and her
hair was unbound.  The big room was in
shadow, save where the light fell about her
reading-lamp.  One could see the tall
ceilings, the high windows, the few pieces of
old English furniture, brought to America
by the early Virginia settlers.

There was a faint noise of a door being
softly pushed open in the adjoining room.

"Juliet, is that you?" Mrs. Burton
inquired.  "Are you tired of the dance and
on your way to bed as I am?  I looked for
you before I came up and could not find you,
I suppose you were somewhere in the grounds."

"Yes, I was.  Is there anything I can do
for you?  Is your bed turned down?" the
girl answered.

Mrs. Burton nodded.

"I believe so, but you must be more tired
than I am, so please don't trouble about me
to-night.  You are too considerate of me
altogether.  There is some business in the
morning I should like to have you help me
with for an hour or more.  My accounts
seemed to have become tangled in the most
absurd fashion and I should like to have
them straightened out before Captain
Burton joins us.  You are a good mathematician,
Juliet, and neither of us are.  Now go to bed."

The girl lingered.

"I want to say something first, perhaps
this is not the proper occasion, but it does
not make much difference.  Since I came
to live with you, Mrs. Burton, I have tried
to make myself useful, but I don't think I
have ever spoken of the fact that I have
grown to be very fond of you.  Oh, I realize
this is not an unusual experience so far as
you are concerned, most of your friends and
family seem to adore you, but it is unusual
with me.  I never have cared for any one,
except my brother.  I told you that he and
I were orphans and that he was younger.
Until he joined the army he gave me a good
deal of trouble, but has been better since.
I persuaded him to continue as an enlisted
man and to try to pass the examinations for
an appointment as an officer later."

"A wise idea, Juliet.  Is there anything
I can do to help you?  I am not a very
influential person, but would do anything
possible."

"No, no, there is nothing," the girl
returned hastily; "I am going to bed in a
moment."

The older woman continued her reading,
a little disturbed by the fact that her
companion would not retire and leave her alone.
She liked Juliet Temple and was grateful
and appreciative, but never had felt for her
the spontaneous affection she had for her
group of Sunrise Camp Fire girls.  This
fact did not trouble her, she never had
cared equally for all the girls associated with
her in the most intimate fashion during the
past few years.  Human nature makes its
inevitable selections.  At the moment not
wishing to be unsympathetic she was hoping
that her companion would make no special
demand upon her at this hour of the night
when they were both weary.  Sentimentality
in their relations the Sunrise Camp
Fire girls never had indulged in and she
never had encouraged.

"Mrs. Burton, I hate to speak of this,
but I must.  Do you think you can give me
a larger salary for the work I am doing for
you.  I need it a great deal."

A short silence, then Mrs. Burton laid
down her book and flushed.

"Juliet, is this what you have been trying
to say?  I am glad you have been frank,
even though I must refuse your request,
Please don't think I am not sorry, but you
understand Captain Burton's and my
circumstances at present almost as well as we
do.  You know we are trying to pay a debt
that we believe we owe.  We enjoy having
you live with us, you have been the greatest
aid and pleasure, but the fact is that you
really have been spoiling me, as it is not
actually essential that I should have you.
I could manage to keep house with dear old
Elspeth, who came to New York to be with
me from Half Moon Lake, and who could
probably look after things as well as you or
I.  I can even attend to my tiresome letters
and business if I must.  I have told you
several times, dear, that I thought you were
being wasted upon me.  When I go back to
town I can find you a much better position
with a good deal larger salary.  I can do this
at once if you like."

The girl shook her head.

"No, I told you I did not wish this, perhaps
it does not matter, I may not need the
money after all."

"Don't decide at once, Juliet.  Good night.
Are you having a happy time here?  I wish
you liked the Camp Fire girls better.  You
would be happier with more friends."

"Oh, the girls are agreeable enough, the
fault is mine.  Mrs. Burton, do you think
it possible to be truly fond of any one and
yet to do that person an unkindness, a
serious unkindness, not a trivial one?"

Mrs. Burton closed her book.

"My dear Juliet, what are you talking
about?  Of course it is possible, almost anything
is possible with human beings, yet it is
scarcely the kind of affection one would care
to receive.  But now really I want to go to
sleep, the music has ceased downstairs and
I hear voices in farewell.  The dance must
be over."





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.. _`THE SAME EVENING`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SAME EVENING

.. vspace:: 2

Reluctantly Mary Gilchrist had
joined the house party at the "House
by the Blue Lagoon".

After her arrival in New York for the first
time in her life she had been ill, nothing
serious at first, merely a languor and
depression which she could not shake off, and
then a fever which persisted for some time
in spite of every care and devotion.

Never a day passed that she did not say
either aloud or to herself that she would
have felt scant interest in her own recovery
had she not been living with the Camp Fire
girls.

After her father's death she was almost
entirely alone, with no relatives save distant
cousins and separated from the friends of
her youth by the years in France.  Always
she and her father had led a fairly isolated
existence on their big thousand-acre wheat
farm.  Her own love of the outdoors, of
boyish amusements and of the work of the
estate, together with her father's
companionship, had been sufficient.

Shut up in the small New York apartment,
ill and grieving, notwithstanding, the
affection and attention lavished upon her,
for several months Gill had found life difficult.

With the arrival of the cold New York
spring she approached a better frame of
mind, but still was without desire to join in
any gaiety.

Her one expressed wish was to be allowed
to remain alone in the apartment while the
other girls went for the visit to the "House
by the Blue Lagoon".

This they positively refused to consider.

As she had been Sally's especial charge,
Sally announced that she did not believe
Gill sufficiently strong to make the journey
or to be in the society of so many persons,
so she had concluded to stay on in New
York with her.  Sally was not easily
dissuaded from a decision, so partly to avoid
this sacrifice, partly because she did not wish
to be separated from her friends and was
interested in Bettina Graham's home, Gill
finally agreed to accompany them.

The stipulation was that she was to be
allowed to be alone as much as she liked
and to take no part in any of the
entertainments, unless she felt the inclination.
No one would try to persuade her to do
anything against her wish.

On this evening of the dance, Gill had
been undecided whether or not to leave her
own room.  At length the desire to see the
beautiful old house lighted and filled with
spring flowers and the girls in their party
dresses brought her down to the drawing
room.  Here she was introduced to a
number of the guests and enjoyed talking to
them, but positively refused to dance.  And
no one insisted beyond the ordinary
demands of courtesy, as her black dress
offered a sufficient explanation.

Gill was not in deep mourning; her dress
was of sheer black muslin, cut low in the
neck, with a narrow edging of black net.

She no longer wore her hair bobbed in
the old, half boyish fashion, but dressed as
simply as possible in a knot at the back of
her head.

The small claim she possessed to good
looks, Gill believed had vanished
altogether and for all times.  Her color was
gone and her animation and she had
depended upon both.

Yet to Allan Drain, who found himself
glancing toward her with interest several
times during the evening, she possessed an
attraction he had not been aware of in their
acquaintance at Half Moon Lake.  There
was a softer and gentler atmosphere about
her.  Her pallor, in contrast with the
red-brown hair and eyes, had its own beauty.

Toward the latter part of the evening,
observing that Gill was so white that she
appeared ill, Allan crossed the room to the
chair where she was sitting alone at the
moment.

"Won't you come out of doors with me
for a little while, Miss Gilchrist.  I believe
you will like it better than indoors and I
know I shall."

Then, as Gill hesitated.

"Please come, I have not had an opportunity
to talk to you alone since our arrival.
I want to tell you that I think I was a good
deal of a boor in refusing to say I forgave
you last winter when you confessed that by
accident you had burned up the manuscripts
of my poems.  After I returned home I
discovered copies of a number of them stored
away in odd places.  I am obliged to
confess they seemed so utterly no account that
you did me a favor by destroying them
before they could be read by any one."

Gill shook her head.

"You are kind, but I don't in the least
believe you.  I told you then and I still feel
that I would rather you would not forgive
me.  I have no idea of forgiving myself."

"Is it too far, shall we walk down to the
lagoon?  I have not seen it at night."

Allan picked up a white shawl which some
one had left on the veranda.

"No, it is not far, but it is probably cold
down there, so put this around you.  Isn't
this place a marvel?  Any one who could
not write poetry here, or at least dream it,
could nowhere on earth.  Do you know the
story of the house and the island and the
blue lagoon?  I have made myself a
nuisance trying to find out."

"No, not as much as I should like to
hear," Gill answered, placing the shawl
about her shoulders in an obedient fashion.

"Originally the island was given by a
special grant from the British king to an
Irishman named Bryan O'Bannon, who
had fought gallantly in his service during
one of the innumerable wars.  He appears
to have been unlike most Irishmen and a
man of wealth, or else he married wealth,
because his wife was one of the sisters of
the great Lord Fairfax of Virginia.

"They built this place and lived here like
royalty, with hundreds of colored servants
I suppose.  There is no special story of a
tragedy until the civil war.  Then one day
a boatload of northern soldiers landed on
the island and took possession.  None of
the men of the family were at home.  It
chanced, however, that a young Confederate
officer was on leave of absence visiting the
girl to whom he was engaged.  When the
northerners surrounded the house, she hid
him in one of the secret passages.  The
story goes that she was insulted by one of
the enemy and drowned herself in the blue
lagoon.  The young officer, waiting her
return and not knowing how to escape,
starved to death."

Gill shivered.

"Good gracious, what a tale on a night
like this!  No matter how beautiful a place
is, nor how shut off from the world, it seems
never able to escape sorrow."

Allan Drain looked more closely at his
companion, whose expression was scarcely
discernible in the flickering lights made by
the Chinese lanterns, swinging like censers
between the trees that led to the blue lagoon.
The winter before she would not have been
capable of a speech like this!

"I am sorry, perhaps I should not have
told you so unhappy a story.  I should have
remembered that you have been ill and in
trouble.  I have not had an opportunity
before to express my sympathy.  I have
been through such a lot of bad health
myself, at least I appreciate what *it* means."

"You are all right now, or a great deal
stronger?  Certainly you look so.  You are
kind to be so good to me.  I was so stupid
and disagreeable when you were ill and
lonely during the winter in the Adirondacks.
I seem to be one of the persons who has to
learn through experience.  Until recently I
have always been so well and I am afraid
spoiled.  I hope I shall never be so impossible
again.  Tell me do you feel more interested
in your medical studies, or is writing still
your one ambition?"

"I am ashamed to say that it is, ashamed
because I seem to have so little talent to
justify all the time and thought I give to it,
when I should be hard at work trying to
learn my profession.  I often fear I am one
of the people who shall fall between the
two, a failure in both.  I did not intend
to be so dismal, but I have had a pretty
severe disappointment of late."

"I am sorry, would you rather tell me
of it, or not?"

By this time they had reached the edge
of the lagoon and stood looking down at
the water, so deep a blue it was nearly black
under the night sky with the stars reflected
in its surface.

There were few waves and only a light
breeze; a small row-boat tied to a stake
lapped gently to and fro.

"Would you like to go for a row?  I am
not a skillful oarsman, but I can manage.
We need not be out long."

Gill hesitated.

"I would like it very much, but we must
be sure to return before the dance is over.
I won't be able to help with the rowing,
I have never attempted it in my life.  You
know I am an inland person and never have
spent any time near the sea until now.  I
never saw the ocean until we crossed to France."

With the boat untied, Allan helped his
companion in and Gill sat down facing him.

Neither of them spoke until they were a
few yards from the shore and moving toward
the opening into the bay.

"Yes, I would like to tell you of my
disappointment.  I have not wished to speak
of it to any one else, why you will
understand when I explain the circumstances.

"Last winter in New York Mrs. Graham
suggested that, when I came to make her a
visit in the spring at the 'House by the
Blue Lagoon', I might bring with me the
manuscript of the play, which I have been
at work upon for a year and that she would
persuade Mrs. Burton to allow me to read
it to her.  Of course with this possibility I
have worked doubly hard until there have
been moments, not many I confess, when
my play has not seemed altogether bad.  I
have had Mrs. Burton in mind as I wrote;
I could not help this, she is the only great
actress I have ever known personally and
in some ways the greatest I have ever seen
act.  I don't believe I have been mad
enough to dream that she would like my
play well enough to appear in it, but I
hoped that she might say a few words of
encouragement, perhaps give me a letter of
introduction to a manager who would read
my play if she made the request."

"Well, what has happened?" Gill
demanded, leaning forward with her lips
slightly parted, her eyes large and interested
fixed upon her companion's face.

"Only that Mrs. Burton declines to be
annoyed.  Mrs. Graham did not offer
exactly this explanation, but what she said
amounted to the same thing.  Please don't
think I am blaming Mrs. Burton, I
understand her position.  She sent word to me
that she was very tired after a winter of
hard work and that for the present wished
to forget the stage altogether.  She begged
me to appreciate that she was not a producer
of plays and that her opinion of what I
have written would be of small value.  In
case she did not like my work she might
disappoint me, when a manager might be
delighted with what I have accomplished."

"Yes, that is true," Gill returned, "so
why feel especially disappointed?  I am sure
Mrs. Burton will give you a letter to a
manager, even if she prefers not to read
your play."

With the peculiar despondency which is
an attribute of the artistic temperament,
Allan Drain shook his head.

"No, if Mrs. Burton is not interested, I
do not care to interest any one else.  With
every line I have written I have thought
and dreamed of her as my heroine.  I don't
want any one else to play it, at least this is
the way I feel at present."

In several moments Gill did not speak,
while Allan Drain pulled hard at his oars,
wishing to conquer his discouragement
through strenuous physical exercise.

He was surprised when his boat so soon
shot out of the lagoon into the broader
waters of the bay.  The waves were not
high and he rowed quietly and steadfastly,
keeping close, as he believed to the shores
of the small island.

Still Gill dreamed on, feeling wonderfully
peaceful and happier than in many months.
She never had forgiven herself for her
carelessness in throwing the manuscript of Allan
Drain's verses into the fire in their winter
cabin at Half Moon Lake.  Now it was a
consolation to discover that Allan Drain
really had forgiven her; there was no
pretence in his words and friendliness to-night.
If only she had possessed sufficient influence
with their Camp Fire guardian to persuade
her to do what he so greatly wished!  After
all it was not so tremendous a favor, in
Gill's estimation.  However, if Mrs. Burton
had refused the request made by her hostess
and most dearly loved friend, no one else
would avail.

"I am so sorry, I do wish I could be of
service," Gill murmured, speaking as much
to herself as to her companion.  "Don't
you think perhaps we had better start home?
I don't wish to, I did not realize that I was
so tired watching the dancing and being in
the midst of so many people until you
brought me out into this beauty and quiet."

"Yes, well I'll go on only a few moments
longer and then turn around.  Once we are
inside the lagoon we can reach our landing
in a quarter of an hour."

When he spoke Allan was not aware that
the wind was growing stronger and that the
tide was turning and running out toward
the sea.  Neither did he realize the length
of time he and Gill had been on the water,
nor the distance they had gone, so swiftly
and smoothly his oars worked, as the beat
moved in unison with the tide.

Ten minutes after their brief conversation,
in attempting to swing around, Allan
discovered that he had a task ahead of him.
To his surprise and consternation he also
found that already he was fatigued.  He
had been out on the water only once since
his arrival at the island and then in
company with David Hale who was an excellent
oarsman.  It had not occurred to him that
as he had rowed only two or three times in
several years he was not in training.

Fortunately his companion was not aware
of his difficulty and was remaining blessedly
silent, so that he could give his entire
attention to his rowing.

Allan strained and pulled, realizing that
the wind was blowing him out of his course.

A half hour he kept on without faltering,
always with the intention of reaching the
shores of the island and skirting it until he
could discover the lagoon.  And always his
companion continued silent.

When he had time to think, Allan concluded
that she had fallen asleep and was
grateful.

If he could not get in to shore he was
managing not be driven far out of the course.

At midnight the small steamboat would
call at the island to take the guests back to
the mainland, who were not to spend the
night, and with luck he might be able to
signal them.

"Don't you think you had better rest for
a few moments, Mr. Drain?"  A quiet voice
suggested.  "Please don't be worried, I am
not uneasy.  At the worst, if we cannot
reach the lagoon and no boat comes to our
rescue, we shall only drift about until the
tide turns.  When daylight arrives we shall
have no difficulty.  I hate your wearing
yourself out and wish I could help."

Gill laughed, a more courageous, gayer
laugh than he had heard from her since their
earlier acquaintance.

"Why, you did not think I was asleep?
I am not so stupid as all that! I did not
wish to trouble you by talking."

Compelled to follow Gill's advice, resting
his oars, Allan allowed their boat to move
with the tide.  Another half hour went by;
at length both of them appreciated that it
must be well past midnight and there was
little chance of rescue by their friends.  The
small steamboat crossed directly from the
island to the mainland and made no circuit
of the bay.

Without comment Allan picked up his oars again.

"I think I can manage to reach the island,
even if we do not discover the lagoon before
dawn.  I have walked around the island
several times and there are a number of
places where one can land.  We will be
more comfortable than in this cramped little
boat and warmer.  Besides we are in some
danger with the waves growing higher and
stronger and the night darker.  I am not
going to attempt to disguise the fact from
you, you are as courageous as I am, in
truth you are more courageous as I
remember you.  If you wish to have the score
settled with me in regard to the accidental
burning of my manuscript, I have accomplished
it with a vengeance to-night by
bringing you out on the water and getting
you into this difficulty.  I only hope you
may not be ill again as a result of my
stupidity.  But I must not talk, I have no
breath to spare.  Once we are safe and
ashore I'll offer my apology."

"Don't worry about me.  If it were not
that the others may be troubled, and I trust
Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Burton went to
their rooms before anyone missed us, and
if you were not wearing yourself out, do
you know I could enjoy this experience.
I am not in the slightest degree frightened,
I suppose I am a kind of an adventurer."

A quarter of an hour after, Allan and Gill
beheld a darker line of land and rowing
closer their boat grounded in the sand amid
shallow water.

"I'll carry you ashore, it will be simpler
than trying to get in by any other method.
Then I'll wade out and drag the boat after us."

"I can wade, please don't, I am far too
heavy," Gill protested, remembering the
character of illness from which Allan Drain
had suffered at the time of their first
meeting.

As he lifted her from her place and her
arms closed about his throat, there was no
sign of weakness in her companion.

Five minutes later she was seated on the
dry sand, able to see the tall figure struggling
in the darkness and drawing the heavy
boat ashore.

"You should have allowed me to help, it
was not fair," Gill argued almost angrily, as,
panting for breath, he dropped down at her
side with the boat only a few feet away.





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.. _`THE CAMP FIRE`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CAMP FIRE

.. vspace:: 2

"No, I don't need your coat.  With
the heat from the fire the white
scarf is sufficiently warm.  I am
grateful to you for making me bring it along.
I don't think we had best sit still at present.
You are so overheated, it will be wiser to
cool off slowly.  Do you mind my taking
your arm?  I am blind in the dark, blinder
than most persons, and although this coast
is chiefly sand there are a few rocks in
unexpected places."  The girl extended her hand.

With a groan at Gill's words, Allan Drain
half arose to a sitting posture.

"Don't be so sensible; I realize that it
would be more intelligent to tramp about
until we get rid of the stiffness from our
cramped position in the boat and until I
feel less like a wet blanket, yet the desire
of my heart at present is to stretch out here
by the fire and not to stir save to put on
fresh firewood."

"Poor woodsman, how long would our
few sticks last?" Gill remonstrated.  "Be
a man; if you won't come with me I shall
have to go stumbling along in the dark,
picking up more driftwood until we have a
supply that will last all night.  After a
time we shall probably be too sleepy to
exert ourselves.  It is rather fun, isn't it,
playing Robinson Crusoe and his man
Friday, when we cannot be more than a
few miles from the house and the lagoon?
At dawn we can reach home in an hour or
so, but to go tramping about the island in
the dark with no idea of the direction strikes
me as the height of absurdity.  I am sorry
you do not like sensible persons, because I
do try to be sensible on occasions.  I
suppose it is too much to expect of a poet.
Come with me, please?"

"Did you suppose I would allow you to
wander off alone, even if I am poet, or
struggle to be one?" Allan Drain demanded,
feeling Gill's slender fingers close firmly on
his arm.  "Do you know it never occurred
to me that you and I would be friends, but
after to-night I shall insist upon it, whether
you like me or not.  Don't dare say that I
do not like sensible persons, I never liked
anything better than the calm fashion in
which you accept our dilemma, treating it
as if it were rather a joke, than a disaster.
Do you mind if I mention that you have not
once suggested that there might be any
gossip, or even discussion of the fact that
you and I are forced to spend the night, in
this--in this--well, in this informal fashion."

Gill laughed and stumbled a little, her
companion promptly assisting her.

"Of course I have thought of it, but it
makes no difference.  This is no special
virtue on my part; as soon as we are able
to explain, none of the house party will
consider the subject again.  Yet I believe
I am capable of going ahead in this world
and doing what I think right, even if people
should talk.  Perhaps I am mistaken, one
really never knows about oneself.  Isn't
that a log I fell over a moment ago?  If you
take one end and I the other it will burn a
long time.  Then in case any one comes to
look for us they can discover us by the sign
of the red flower."

"Red flower?  What are you talking
about?" Allan Drain said irritably, feeling
uninterested in further physical exertion,
now that he had landed Gill safely on the
island and had only to wait a few hours
before they could row or walk home.

"Wait until I can tell you," Gill answered.

A few moments after, when they had
carefully laid the old log, cast up on the
island after voyaging upon what unknown
waters, on the camp fire and stood watching
the flames leap up into the night, blue, rose
and gold, Gill added:

"Did you not know that in the old days
our forefathers called flame, the 'Red
Flower'?  If by any chance the tribal fire
died out they went forth, sometimes to war,
to steal the 'Red Flower' from the enemy."

Allan Drain remained silent.

Glancing at him and seeing his face lit
by the glow, Gill was startled by his expression.

"You can't guess what you have just done
for me?  Oh, it may not seem of importance
to you, and yet I can scarcely explain how
much it means to me.  For months and
months I have been trying to find a title
for my new play and now you have given
me the perfect title: 'The Red Flower'.
It's a wonder!  The theme of my play is
the flame of life that burns for good or ill
in each one of us, and burns with greater
beauty and purity in my heroine than in
any one else.

"Forgive me, to think of my daring to
talk of my play and myself (for at times
they seem the same thing) with you here in
the cold and dark, waiting for morning!
Shall we continue to walk, or will you rest
for a little, while I explore.  It is possible
I may find a more comfortable place than
this for you."

Gill sat down, resting her chin in her hand
and gazing into the fire.  She could hear
the waves lapping against the shore of the
little island and behind her the wind rustling
in the trees.

After to-night, surely she and Allan Drain
must be good friends as he had stated.  In
any case her former prejudice against him
was vanishing.

If he were willing to believe that this
night's experience canceled the injury she
had done him, the price was not severe.

Gill looked up at the stars; it must now
be between two and three o'clock in the
morning.  She only could hope that her
Camp Fire guardian, her hostess and friends
were not seriously troubled.  This thought
alone made her unhappy, although she was
beginning to feel weary and lonely now that
Allan Drain had disappeared, if only for a
few moments.

"Miss Gilchrist, Gill," she heard him
calling, using her diminutive name in his
excitement for the first time in their
acquaintance.  "I have discovered a tiny
house an eighth of a mile back from the
shore, a fisherman's cottage I think it must
be.  I have noticed one or two of these
huts when I have tramped over the island.
It isn't clean and it is pretty dark, but it is
under shelter and if you will go in and rest
I'll keep guard outside until daylight."

Gill shook her head.

"Leave our fire and the stars and the
outdoors?  Thank you, no.  We will sit here
together and you won't mind if I doze now
and then.  See here, Mr. Drain, Allan
Drain, when we met in the Adirondacks you
did not like me because you thought I was
like a boy.  I know it is unattractive, but
to-night suppose you try to think of me
as a boy, as if we were two comrades who
had met with an unexpected adventure, for
which one was no more to blame than the
other, and that we were both determined to
make the best of it.

"If you don't mind sitting closer I'll lean
against your shoulder a few moments.  If I
am a nuisance don't hesitate to say so."

In ten minutes Allan Drain discovered
that his companion was asleep, this time in
reality.

Her red-brown hair having tumbled partly
down--Gill had unloosened it, so that it
hung crisp and straight to her shoulders--her
pallor seemed strangely to have departed
with the night's adventure, or else her skin
was warmed by the heat from the fire; her
lips, irregular in shape, were slightly parted.

An interesting face, Allan Drain concluded,
if not a beautiful one, and a nature,
generous and faulty, which so far was not
fully awakened.  Doubtless she would fight
valiantly for a friend, but might prove a
formidable enemy.

Gill stirred, and without being aware of
the fact her companion smiled.

After the night's experience would they
be enemies or friends?  He hoped and
intended they should be friends, as he had
announced earlier in the evening.

Few girls, in his estimation, possessed the
gift for friendship.  And personally there
was no possibility of a relation deeper than
friendship in his own life for many years;
whether as a physician or a writer, he had a
long and difficult road to travel before he
could expect even a fair amount of wealth.

Now and then during the next few hours
Allan dozed.  Occasionally he would have
to awaken Gill by rising and going forth in
search of fresh firewood.

At dawn they both opened their eyes at
the same moment.

A mist was rising from the sea, curling
heavenward and scattered by light winds.

In the sky there was an indefinite, faint glow.

Later the clouds parted and Allan recalled
his reading of the Iliad and Homer's description
of Apollo and his immortal horses and
chariot.  Almost one could see them move
across the sky trailing clouds of glory.  Then
the colors blended and day arrived.

In the interval neither Allan nor Gill
spoke after their first good morning.

Finally Gill stood up, stretching out her
arms, her face radiant.

"Never shall I forget the beauty of this
dawn, never as long as I live.  I had not
thought to see the morning come up out of
the ocean.  I beg your pardon if I seem too
enthusiastic; please remember that I was
born and brought up in Kansas and an island
in the midst of the sea is almost as thrilling
an experience as the sight of a new planet.
Now I'll descend to realities and go and wash
my face in the salt water.  Shall we walk or
row back home?  I'm starving, aren't you?"

"Then what do you say to remaining an
hour longer and catching fish and frying
them for breakfast?  Perhaps I can find
fishing tackle in the hut I stumbled into last
night."

On the way to the water Gill called back
over her shoulder.

"Don't tempt me, we must return as
soon as possible."

"Then we will row home; it will be
quicker and save the trouble of bringing
the boat in later.  Besides, how much more
dignified to row calmly up the blue lagoon
than to tramp across the island!"

Gill rejoined him and was attempting to
fix her hair.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but there is
nothing to suggest dignity in either one of
us at present.  I am judging by your
appearance and guessing at my own."

"Sure you feel none the worse for the
night outdoors?"

Then as she shook her head, Allan made
no further comment, although conscious of
the fact that few persons would have passed
through the discomforts of such a night and
on awaking make no reference to anything
save the beauty of the morning.

There were a number of other circumstances
Allan felt he would like to mention--the
soreness of his arms and back, the stiffness
of his legs, a general shiveriness and a
sensation of not having been to sleep in ages.
Yet in the face of Gill's better sporting
instinct he declined to complain.  The
freshness and splendor of the dawn had
brought a physical as well as spiritual
exaltation.

Landing at the accustomed place in less
than an hour, as they approached the old
house no one appeared to be stirring except
the birds in the eaves.

"Do you suppose by some good fortune
no one has missed us?  One scarcely knows
whether to be pleased or chagrined.  At
least I shall awaken Bettina and recount
our adventure.  Good-by, I shall try to
sleep most of the day and see you to-night
I hope."

As Gill nodded her farewell, Allan left her
at the door of the big house and went on
to one of the cabins nearby, which was at
present occupied by the half dozen
masculine guests.

By this time it was approaching six
o'clock and Gill discovered that one of the
maids had unlocked the front door.  Going
in, she went directly to Bettina's room.
When there was no immediate answer to
her knock she walked quietly in.

Bettina sat up in bed, looking like a
princess in a fairy tale with her two long
braids of light hair falling over her shoulders
and her nightdress of silk and lace.
Notwithstanding Bettina's ideas of service and
devotion to the less fortunate, her mother
insisted, and Bettina was not unwilling, that
she wear beautiful clothes.  As her mother
bought the clothes and gave them to her,
Bettina had no alternative.

"Gill, what *is* the matter?  Are you ill,
do you need anything?  Why you are
dressed in the same frock that you wore
last night at the dance."

Bettina rubbed her eyes, becoming more
aware of her surroundings, as Gill stood
laughing and gazing down upon her.

"So this is what it means to be shipwrecked
and spend the night on an island
in the society of a poet?  One returns to
find one never has been missed."

"Sit down, Gill, and talk sensibly.
Shipwrecked?  Island?  Are you still dreaming?
Did you not go up to your room last night
before the dance was over and retire before
the rest of us?  When I found you had
vanished, Sally told me that you had said
you were tired and that no one was to pay
any attention to you if you disappeared."

"Yes, I did tell Sally that and was about
to depart when Allan Drain asked me to go
for a walk with him.  Afterwards we went
to row for a half hour on the lagoon,
managed to slip into the bay and, when the tide
turned, were carried farther out.  We
discovered the island, but not the blue lagoon
and were forced to wait until daylight.  I
am sorry, I realized when it was too late
that I should not have gone, but tried to
make the best of it and to accept the situation
in a matter-of-fact fashion.  I am going
to bed now.  Will you explain to your
mother and Mrs. Burton that I'll go into
the details of our adventure when I am not
so tired.  At least the thing I feared did
not occur, you were not frightened and did
not believe the water had swallowed us up."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FOLLOWING DAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FOLLOWING DAY

.. vspace:: 2

Not in several years could Sally
Ashton recall so trying a day as
the present one, not since those
fateful days in France when she had nursed
an unknown soldier in a ruined château.

In the first place, she was worried about
Gill.  Characteristic of Gill to insist that
the night outdoors in the fog and cold
probably had been good for her; Sally was not
under a similar impression.  Devotedly and
faithfully she had nursed and watched the
other girl during the past winter, to discover
that Gill possessed a boyish carelessness and
lack of judgment concerning her own health.

So in and out of Gill's room, Sally spent a
portion of her morning, carrying in the
breakfast tray, insisting that Gill, in spite
of her protests, use a hot water bag
prevent her taking cold.

At eleven o'clock again she tiptoed softly
back, and finding Gill awake departed to
bring a glass of milk, in case she should
prefer to sleep on through luncheon.

"I may not be able to come in to see you
during the afternoon, Gill; Bettina suggests
that, as she is your hostess, I might permit
her to have a little of the care of you, so I
agreed.  There is something else I may
have to attend to and you seem all right."

With a harrassed, even troubled air,
unlike her usual serenity, Sally stood frowning,
looking not at Gill, but out the open
window.

Gill stretched forth her hand.

"Sally, dear, what is the matter?  You
are not worrying about me, that is too
absurd!  You are a perfect dear and I am
everlastingly grateful, but I have not even
taken cold.  There is something else on
your mind.  If you don't wish to confide
in me, why not tell some one, Mrs. Graham
or Mrs. Burton."

Sally failed to lift her eyes.

"No, not at present.  I had thought of
speaking to Aunt Betty and then decided
I had best wait.  Tante is absolutely out
of the question.  By the way, she was much
upset when she heard what had happened
to you and Allan Drain, but after a talk
with Allan is in a happier frame of mind.
I was to tell you that she would see you
when you were more rested."

Sally waited, as if trying to reach a
decision before stirring from her present
position.

"Gill, if there was something you believe
you ought to do, would you go ahead, even
if it made some one you cared for angry?"
she unexpectedly demanded.

Gill studied her closely.

"I don't know what to answer, as
would depend partly upon circumstances
But, Sally, dear, please don't get yourself
into any difficulty.  You have been through
a trying winter with me and are here by the
blue lagoon for a holiday."

Sally shook her head.

"I'll do my best to avoid it."

A few moments before lunch Sally
discovered Dan Webster alone on the front
porch and went toward him in her sweetest
and most friendly fashion.

"It is nice to find you by yourself, Dan.
You said last night that I had been avoiding
you, which was not exactly true.  I have
had something on my mind and it is hard,
as you know, at a house party, to slip away
from the others."

Dan laughed.

"Yes, Sally, but it is the very fact of
your slipping away from the others that I
did object to.  Had you gone with me I
might have felt differently."

Sally put out her hand, catching at her
companion's coat sleeve.

"Promise me, Dan, that if I do something
you don't like, you won't be angry?
You might have a little faith in me!"

Dan shook his head.

"Faith or no faith, Sally, I won't have
you trudging over this island alone on any
kind of fool's errand.  If you do what I
asked you not, I shall find it hard to forgive
you.  Let's not talk of this; why not come
for a walk with me this afternoon?  We
have not had a walk in ages!"

"No, Dan, I can't, I am sorry, but I am
tired from waiting on Gill all morning and
from the dance last night and mean to have
a nap."

Then to Sally's relief, Mrs. Graham
appeared on the veranda and luncheon was
announced.

In the afternoon from her bedroom
window Sally saw most of the house party
disappear.  They were crossing over to the
mainland to watch a drill at the fort.  She
had declined to go, but was happy to
observe that Dan was with them and
walking with Vera Lagerloff, whom he had
known since they were children.

A short time after, making a pretence of
keeping her word, Sally lay down on her
bed for five minutes.  Then she arose, put
on a sweater and a small, close-fitting hat
and unobserved went downstairs.  Instead
of going out at once, however, she slipped
into the drawing-room and sat down by a
window where she was almost completely
concealed by the curtain.

She sat there about a half hour.  At the
end of that time another member of the
house-party appeared from a side door,
glanced about her, as if wondering whether
she was observed, and then started
alone, presumably for a walk.

Not at once, but within two or three
moments, Sally arose and followed her.  By
walking rapidly she might be able to join
her; by loitering she might keep her in view.

As the girl walked quickly and as Sally
was not fond of strenuous exercise, she was
forced to hurry in order not to lose sight
of her.

After an hour and a quarter of fast walking
the girl in advance reached the small
fisherman's hut which Allan Drain had
discovered the night before.

She remained waiting in the open doorway
until a small boat landed on the beach
and a young man jumped out.  Then she
ran forward to meet him.

From her place of concealment behind a
clump of trees Sally was neither surprised
nor shocked.  There was no question with
regard to the likeness between Juliet Temple
and her companion, plainly they were sister
and brother.  Then why did Juliet Temple
not bring her brother to the "House by the
Blue Lagoon"?  The question puzzled and
troubled Sally.

After all, she was making a mistake.  If
another girl chose to have secret meetings
with her own brother, it was not her
affair.

Had she not always distrusted Juliet
Temple and believed she intended some
wrong purpose, never would she have
pursued her present course.

Dan must never learn what she had been
doing, or he might be not only angry but
disdainful.

Sally turned and started home, sitting
down now and then to rest.  Having finally
made up her mind to cease playing detective,
she was in a more comfortable frame
of mind.

Should Juliet Temple by any chance
overtake her, Sally determined to confess.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN INTERVIEW`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN INTERVIEW

.. vspace:: 2

Seated on a log and looking out
toward the water, hearing some one
coming up behind her, not anxious to
begin an interview which might lead to
uncomfortable explanations, Sally did not
turn her head.

When some one called her name, she
jumped quickly to her feet and swinging
around, faced Dan Webster.

Instantly her face grew scarlet.

"You have followed me, Dan.  I shall
never forgive you.  Deliberately you made
a pretence of going away with the others for
the afternoon in order that I might be
deceived."

Sally's words were harsher than her manner,
for even as she spoke she put her hands
to her hot cheeks and her voice trembled.

Dan was looking at her as she never had
seen him.  His usually ruddy, freshly
colored skin had lost nearly every vestige
of color, his lips were set and hard and his
blue eyes at once stern and unhappy.

"Certainly I followed you, Sally, I told
you that was my intention, and you are
perfectly right in your supposition that I
tricked you by appearing to leave the island.
I did this not because I really believed you
would continue your secret meetings, but
because I wanted to be convinced."

"Secret meetings!" Sally exclaimed,
moving backwards a step or two and dropping
her hands at her sides.  "I think it is my
right, Dan, to ask what you mean."

"Why, I mean what I said.  How could
I mean anything else?  Please don't make
things worse by failing to tell the truth,
particularly now when it is too late to do
anything else.  I have been tramping about
for the past half hour trying to decide what
was best.  I am going directly to Tante,
and I wish you would come with me, and
tell her that you have had half a dozen
secret meetings with a young fellow who
lands on the island in an out-of-the-way
spot, instead of using the lagoon where he
could be seen from the house.  Doubtless
you will explain your reason."

Sally was silent, her face now paler than
her companion's.

"Of course I know, Sally, there is no
harm in what you have been doing, but you
yourself will confess that it does not look
well and that anyone who cares for you has
a right to try to protect you from your own
indiscretion.  Who is this fellow?  Is he
some friend whom you don't think the rest
of us would care to know?  And for what
reason?  I saw you stop behind a clump of
trees and a few moments later his boat
landed and I walked away.  I did mot wish
actually to spy upon you.  You must only
have spoken to him, as it was a brief time
ago.  Perhaps you are befriending this
fellow in some way; if you are, why not let
me help?"

"I am befriending no one," Sally returned.

"Then come with me to Tante.  Perhaps
you will confide in your Camp Fire guardian.
I was never so disappointed in any human
being in my life, Sally, as I am in you.  I
feel as if I were in a nightmare from which
I must wake up."

.. _`"I Was Never So Disappointed in Any Human Being in My Life, Sally, As I Am in You"`:

.. figure:: images/img-191.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "I Was Never So Disappointed in Any Human Being in My Life, Sally, As I Am in You."

   "I Was Never So Disappointed in Any Human Being in My Life, Sally, As I Am in You."

Almost roughly Dan took Sally by the arm.

The next instant she had broken away
and a second time seated herself on the log.

"Go and tell whom you like, Dan Webster,
and whatever you like, and not only
Tante, but Aunt Betty and the entire group
of Camp Fire girls.  Be sure to miss no
one.  Afterwards don't speak to me again."

Hesitating, his sternness slightly relaxed,
as whose would not have been by the sight
of Sally, Dan took one step in her direction
and then paused.  Unexpectedly her head
went down, the golden brown eyes that had
been so full of defiance the moment before,
filled and brimmed over, as she buried her
head in her hands.

He was under the impression that he had
been sufficiently unhappy upon making the
discovery that she was keeping a secret
from her friends, but his past unhappiness
was as nothing to this.

"Sally, dear, I am afraid I spoke rudely
to you.  You know I was concerned for
your sake.  Of course I am not going to
speak of the matter to Tante, as you'll tell
her yourself at once."

"I shall do no such thing, Dan," Sally
answered in a muffled tone.

Dan appeared and felt defeated.

Slowly he began walking up and down a
few feet away, his head bowed, an expression
of anxiety and depression on his handsome,
boyish face.

Finally he came and stood in front of the
girl.

"Sally, I want to apologize to you, you
must do what you think best.  You asked
me to have faith in you and I have not had.
Good-by.  I won't ask you to walk home
with me, but come soon, dear, you are tired
and upset and ought to rest before dinner."

Dan was moving away when Sally caught
up with him.

"Dan, please listen.  I want to tell you
what actually has happened, I never wanted
to tell anyone anything so much in my
whole existence.  I am afraid you will
think I have not behaved very well, but
you may scold as much as you like because
I agree with you.

"Of course I have not been meeting any
strange youth for any purpose whatsoever.
What I have been doing is following Juliet
Temple and I have little excuse to offer.

"Soon after her arrival I noticed that
she slipped off several times alone and one
day I followed her, partly from curiosity
and the old distrust I always have felt for
her.  It is a curious thing, Dan.  I believe
Juliet is honestly fond of Tante, but I
think in the end she will use her for her
own purpose.

"Well, Juliet went farther than I expected
and I saw her meet some one whom I feel
sure is her brother, as they look so exactly
alike.  Besides, I heard that he was a
soldier and most of the time he is in
uniform.  It is Juliet's affair of course and
she probably has some legitimate excuse for
not wishing us to know him, but I confess
it troubles me.

"In a way I feel I owe an apology to
Juliet, but it might be more comfortable for
us both not to speak of it.  I was just
reaching a decision to forget the whole
matter when you interrupted and frightened
me.  If you doubt what I have told you,
Dan, you can wait until Juliet returns and
tell her what I have told you.  I would
prefer she and Tante should both know
than that you should doubt me."

"But I don't doubt your word, Sally;
nothing would ever induce me to doubt you
now or in the future," Dan returned with
more earnestness than his previous point of
view gave him the excuse for possessing.
"Besides, now I recall that twice I have
seen Juliet Temple not far away, soon after
observing you.  I am a dunce and a blockhead
and your devoted friend, Sally.

"Why in the world do you feel this
distrust of Juliet Temple?  No wonder Tante
thinks she has a hard time among you girls
and appeals to me to be kind to her.  She
seems to me a tiresome kind of girl, who
isn't capable of anything out of the ordinary.
She is clever enough to be a good secretary,
or companion, or whatever she is to Tante,
and that is the end of it."

"Think so, Dan?  Well, perhaps you are
right," Sally replied.  "Suppose we hurry
home.  I don't wish to appear as if you
had made me cry, although it is perfectly
true that you have."

"Never as long as we live shall I trouble
you again."

Wise in things feminine, Sally shook her
head and smiled.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TWISTED COILS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   TWISTED COILS

.. vspace:: 2

"If you can finish, Juliet, without
further assistance from me, I believe
I will go and look for the Camp Fire
girls.  They have been so busy with their
own affairs of late, I feel slightly neglected.
Then do take a walk, or lie down, whichever
you prefer.  You have been looking a little
nervous and pale of late.  I would
understand if you had been working hard, but
we both have been having a holiday."

Mrs. Burton stood before her mirror
making soft little pats at her hair,
characteristic of all girls and women.

She had on a house dress of crepe de chine
in a curious shade of old gold with a girdle
of brown velvet.

"I can't become accustomed to my
appearance in this dress, Juliet.  It seems to
me I look rather worse than usual.  I wish
it were becoming to you so I might present it
to you, but I am afraid the color is wrong."

Juliet Temple made no reply and seemed
scarcely to have heard what had been said
to her.  She was seated at a desk with
several bills and a check book before her.

As Mrs. Burton, preparing to leave the
room, opened the door, she said in a low tone:

"Would you mind signing these checks
before you go?  One is for the rent of the
apartment."

"Tante, won't you come for a ride with
us around the island?  We won't be long!"
Bettina Graham called at the same instant
from outside in the hall.

"Wait a moment, dear, and I'll join you.
Give me the checks, Juliet, please.  What
an abominable pen!  Are the three all you
wish me to sign?"

"Yes, all for the present," Juliet
answered, gathering them hastily together
and placing one over the other.

At the same time Mrs. Burton went out
of the room.

"I don't feel like driving, Bettina.  I was
intending to see what you girls were doing
and perhaps have an impromptu Camp Fire
meeting.  We have been neglecting our
Council meetings of late and it is not a
good plan, yet I know it is difficult with so
many masculine guests to be entertained.
Who is going for the drive?"

"Oh, no one except my shadows, as you
call my two small girls, and David Hale
and Marguerite Arnot.  Marguerite has
been so busy helping mother look after the
house she and David have scarcely been
able to exchange a word, and you know I
always have wished them to be friends.
Mother said she would go if you liked, but
not otherwise."

"Are the other girls here?  I'll find
mother when she has rested, I know this is
the hour she lies down."

"Yes, I think they are in the house
somewhere.  I am not sure about Sally.  I
heard Dan ask her to go for a row and
heard Sally decline, but she may have
changed her mind, even Sally sometimes
does change her mind--for Dan.

"I must hurry, but if you pass my room,
dear, will you look at the old English prints
that father found and presented me for my
sitting-room.  They are so lovely I feel
mother should have them, but she insists not."

Bettina ran off down the stairs and
Mrs. Burton moved toward the front of the old
house, where Bettina's apartment of
bedroom and sitting-room was located.

Coming toward her through the hall with
a book under his arm was Allan Drain.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Burton, if I am
intruding by being up here, when I know
this second floor is the feminine part of the
house, but Miss Bettina told me I could
get this book from her bookcase.  I was
trying to escape without being discovered."

The Camp Fire guardian laughed.

"Oh, the situation is not so serious as
that.  You need not run away.  Stop a
moment, won't you?  I want to speak to
you.  I have been intending to for the past
ten days.  I am afraid you think I am
unkind and selfish not to allow you to read
your new play to me.  I know Mrs. Graham
tried to explain as pleasantly as possible,
but the fact remains that I did refuse, even
when she asked me and I don't like to refuse
her many things.  I was tired; you see I
have not acted for a number of years and
the past winter was a good deal of a strain.
Besides, I am the poorest kind of a critic!
I want you to know that I trust your play
will be a great success, and if not this, then
the next one.  It is a long and oftentimes
difficult road you have started to travel,
yet I presume it is like acting, if the thing
is in your blood, you must keep at it through
good and ill.  Forgive me and understand
my attitude.  I am afraid I am growing
more selfish as I grow older, but I don't
wish you to feel this all unkindness, I might
have to say something discouraging and I
might be wrong and then I should have
hurt you for nothing."

Polly Burton held out her hand in the
simple, friendly fashion characteristic of
her.  As the young fellow took it and held
it for an instant she saw in his face the
beauty and honor of a sincere and ardent
admiration, not for her as a woman, but as
an artist.

"Thank you," he returned, "I do understand
and I have not the least right to
trouble you.  You have been too kind in
the past.  The road is hard because I have
my living to make and cannot afford to
work and wait as one should.  I only trust
I have the courage to hold out."

Waiting for Mrs. Burton to move away,
his eyes never left her, consciously studying
the slender, graceful figure, the small head
with its mass of dark hair and the brilliant
blue eyes, the mark of her Irish inheritance,
yet of less interest than the long, too thin
face, with the pointed chin and the irregular,
deeply colored lips.

"Have you a name for your play? The
title is so important.  I hated the title of
mine last winter, in spite of its Shakespearean
significance it was too difficult to say,
'A Tide in the Affairs'."

"Yes, I think I have.  Only the other night
Miss Gilchrist, Gill, gave it to me by
accident while we waited for the coming of
morning by our Camp Fire.  She spoke of
flame as 'The Red Flower'.  Do you like
it, 'The Red Flower', as a title?"

Mrs. Burton uttered a little exclamation.

"Yes, I do, immensely.  See here, Allan,
would you like to compromise with me and
allow me to read your play to myself.  If I
like it I shall tell you so; if I don't I shall
say nothing, so as not to influence you.  In
any case I should prefer not having you
read it aloud.  Most persons read so
poorly and if they don't, it is more
confusing.  I can get my own impression much
better if I am alone and it is under my own
eyes."

Allan gripped the mahogany post of the
balustrade until the veins stood up on his
hands.

"You mean you really will read it?  Of
course I should rather you would read it to
yourself.  I should be sure to make a wreck
of it.  Yet I ought not to be such a nuisance,
and please don't think I expect you to say
anything good of it."

Again Mrs. Burton laughed.

"Look here, Allan, I know the artistic
temperament too well to be deceived by
you.  You don't mind being a nuisance
one bit if you can have your own way, no
one of us artists minds.  And, my dear boy,
of course you expect me to say your play is
good; if you did not, you would never allow
me to look at it.  You expect this one
moment and the next you are in utter
despair because you are convinced it is the
poorest play ever written or conceived.

"I'll do my best for you, only you must
not worry if I am rather a time getting at
it.  I must rest and forget the theater for
a little longer."

"I shall wait forever, if you desire and
be everlastingly grateful always," Allan
said so fervently that Polly Burton,
recalling her own youth had an emotion of
sympathy and determined not to keep him
waiting for her judgment for any great
length of time.

Bettina's sitting-room door was open and
the moment after she went in and stood
looking about the room.

Youth was always hard to understand,
even if it understood itself, which it never
does.

Here was Bettina's little apartment as
exquisite as any girl could dream of, or
desire.  The rugs were of a wonderful blue,
the color she loved best, the walls more
lightly colored, the furniture not the
massive mahogany of most old southern houses,
but of an English design, the famous
Chippendale.  Outside her windows
Bettina had a view of the blue lagoon and the
wider bay beyond.  Yet she preferred to
leave all this beauty and luxury and spend
her life in the slums.

"Well, life is only an expression of human
personality, and if Bettina is in earnest, she
has the right to do what she wishes,"
Mrs. Burton thought, as she picked up one of
the prints Bettina had asked her to examine.

As she stood holding it in her hand she
heard Alice Ashton and Vera Lagerloff
talking together in the adjoining room with
the door between partly open.

"Don't you think, Vera, that one or the
other of us should go at once to Aunt
Patricia?  I know she said neither of us was
to come, but that does not alter our
responsibility.  She must need some one."

Mrs. Burton put down the picture she
scarcely had seen and took a step forward,
then paused.

"It is so impossible to think of Aunt
Patricia as poor, isn't it? Ever since we
have known her she has been lavishing her
wealth in every direction, upon every one
except herself.  It is like her now to declare
that she has paid the rent of our little New
York apartment for a year and that we are
not to think of making any changes before
then.  Don't you suppose we can persuade
her to come and live with us for the present
at least until she decides what she wishes
to do permanently?" Vera suggested.

"Yes, but Aunt Patricia insists she is
going to find work, that at last she is glad
she never has had a gray hair.  She seems
really not to be so unhappy over the
situation as we are for her.  Her only fear
apparently is that we shall take Tante into
our confidence concerning her.  And frankly
this makes me uncomfortable!  I think
Tante should be told.  But I shall leave
you to talk the matter over with Aunt
Betty.  I am going to Boston in the
morning.  I shall see father and mother and ask
them to go with me to Aunt Patricia's
house, it is just outside of town.  Then we
can face the situation together."

"An excellent idea, Alice, but I shall go
in your place.  I have just overheard what
you and Vera were saying.  As you were
speaking of Aunt Patricia and I think it my
right to know of her, notwithstanding her
attitude toward me, I made no effort not
to hear.

"Now, please tell me in detail so far as
you know what has occurred."

An instant Alice Ashton hesitated, but
there was something in her Camp Fire
guardian's manner and expression that
commanded obedience.  Very seldom in her
life had she assumed this attitude, when
she did, no one dreamed of opposing her.

"Why, yes, Tante, I'll tell you and am
very glad to be relieved of the responsibility.
This morning unexpectedly Vera and I
received a long letter from Aunt Patricia.
We had not heard in several weeks.  In
the letter she explains that she had been
intending to write for some time, but was
waiting until she understood more definitely
what condition her affairs were in.  She
stated that she had known for some time
that she had been spending too much
money and had drawn upon her capital, as
well as using her entire income.  Her
lawyer has told her several times that she
must retrench, but being Aunt Patricia she
had paid no attention to him.  Well, the
climax came when Aunt Patricia learned
that the home she is erecting for war orphans
in France is to cost double what she had
expected it would cost.  The fault has been
chiefly her own; she has been adding all
kinds of things, playgrounds and an
outdoor school and a specially fitted-up
hospital for the children in a separate building.
You may know more than I do about it.

"When she went to her lawyers with the
information that she required twice the
sum she originally told them to raise, they
declared this could not be accomplished
without leaving her virtually penniless.
She too had been buying oil stock like the
rest of the world, hoping to gain more
money for her orphans and the stock had
turned out to be worthless.

"Aunt Patricia does not seem to care a
great deal.  She announces that she has
secured the necessary money for her war
orphans and the building will be completed
with all the recent improvements.  She
apologizes because she will not have the
money to allow Vera and me continue our
college course when this year is over.
Neither will she be able to keep up her
place in Boston, but this is incidental."

"Oh, that will make no special difference
to Aunt Patricia, as she never has been
fond of the place.  It was her brother's
home and they were very different characters.
She will live with me in the future."

Observing Vera and Alice exchange a
glance, Mrs. Burton smiled.

"You don't believe she will consent to
this, do you, considering the fact that she
has declined to speak to me for nearly a
year?  Nevertheless I assure you she will.
It is not worth while for you to accompany
me, Alice; I prefer to go to Boston alone.
I shall bring Aunt Patricia here until we
make our summer plans.  I must find
Mrs. Graham now and learn whether Aunt
Patricia has written her.  Good-by."

A moment later the two friends met face
to face.

"I have been looking for you in your
own room, Polly.  Come into my room,
won't you?  I have just received a
surprising letter from Aunt Patricia in which
she insists I am not to confide her misfortune
to you.  This is nonsense, when you
are the one person in the world who can
give her the affection and help she requires.
I don't believe Aunt Patricia will care
particularly for the loss of her fortune if the
loss restores you to her."

"Thank you, Betty, dear, you need feel
no anxiety.  Now that I may be able to do
something for Aunt Patricia, and not accept
everything from her, I have not the least
idea of permitting her to behave in her old,
obstinate, absurd fashion.  Thank goodness,
we shall be friends soon again; no one
dreams how much I have missed her during
this past winter!"

"You don't think Aunt Patricia will
refuse to see you?"

Polly Burton shook her head.

"I don't care in the least if she does
refuse at first.  There are occasions, Betty,
dear, when you know I can be as obstinate
a woman as Aunt Patricia Lord.  I shall
be away about five days.  You will let me
bring her back with me?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE DISAPPEARANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE DISAPPEARANCE

.. vspace:: 2

"Juliet Temple has not returned,
Sally.  Mother feels uneasy and
told me to ask if you knew anything
of her plans.  We feel especially
responsible now that Tante is away, as she
made it a point that we were to look after
Juliet while she was gone and see that she
was not lonely."

"Why, what has happened, Bettina?"
Sally inquired serenely.  "I am sure you
have been more than attentive for the past
few days."

The long twilights were beginning and
with dinner over, Sally and Dan were
sitting in the hammock under the linden
trees, one of Sally's favorite resorts.

The other members of the house party
were in the garden, where already a few
tiny spears were appearing from seeds
planted but a brief time ago, so swift had
been the arrival of the heat that of late
there had been days more like summer
than spring.

"Well, perhaps Juliet was so bored with
my society that she has preferred to run
away.  She told mother this morning that
she wished to go to the mainland on the
early boat and would be away all day.
Mother made a point of making her promise
to return in the afternoon.  But now the
last boat has come and gone and there is no
chance of her reaching the island until
to-morrow, unless some friend brings her
across, which does not seem probable.  We
might go over in the motor launch and
search for her, but discovering her would
be another matter."

"Didn't Juliet intend to spend the night
away from the island?" Sally inquired.
"Otherwise why did she take her suit case?
I saw her starting off with it."

"She wished to bring back her purchases
and said she thought this would be
the simplest method of carrying them.  I
declare I don't know what we ought to do.
I would not for a great deal have Juliet in
any difficulty; the very fact that Tante
thinks we do not like her would make me
more uncomfortable if matters have gone
wrong."

"Is there anything I can do to be
useful?" Dan asked.  "Tell Aunt Betty that
of course I am at her service."

There was in Dan's manner a constraint
that puzzled Bettina, while Sally
continued to rock idly to and fro, Dan having
risen on Bettina's arrival.

"You seem remarkably uninterested,
Sally," she declared with unusual irritability,
since ordinarily Bettina possessed a
fine self-control.

"Sorry," Sally answered calmly, "but
you see, my dear, I have a conviction that
Juliet Temple is well able to take care of
herself.  Suppose we walk to the house,
so that Dan may ask Aunt Betty if she
wishes him to do anything in the matter.

"You and I might go up to Juliet's room
and investigate.  Endeavor to discover if
she has taken any of her belongings which
might give one the idea that she planned to
be away over night."

"Oh, very well, Sally, although it seems
unnecessary.  If Juliet wished to remain
away who would or could have objected,
so what possible reason for secrecy?  Being
a determined person, however, perhaps I
had best do as you say.

"Dan, you will find mother in the
drawing-room.  Ask her to take no steps until
Sally and I report any discovery we may
make.  Has it ever occurred to you that
Sally is under the impression she has a gift
for detective work?"

Her speech was a perfectly idle one so
Bettina was puzzled to observe Sally blush
uncomfortably and lower her eyes, while
Dan said "No" in an annoyed tone.

Ten minutes after, the two girls were
standing facing each other in Juliet Temple's
room, which adjoined Mrs. Burton's larger one.

"Really, Sally dear, I do not like to peer
into Juliet's private closet or bureau
drawers.  Would you mind looking first, since
after all I am her hostess and you are not."

Sally smiled the demure smile with which
she covered a number of situations.

"So, Bettina, you wish me to do something
you have an aversion to doing yourself?
Never mind, I don't particularly
object and you do.  Besides, the suggestion
originated with me and if I am right or
wrong, I shall summon the courage to
confess to Juliet, although I shall not enjoy
it.  I shall tell her that Aunt Betty was
uneasy and we thought perhaps she had
arranged to spend the night with friends
and used this method to find out."

So saying, Sally drew forth the top
drawer of the mahogany chest of drawers,
then a second and a third drawer; each
and every one was entirely empty.

Without comment the two girls walked
across the room and together unfastened
the closet door; not a dress or garment of
any kind hung inside.

"Sally, Juliet does not intend to return!
*Why*, I don't understand, we have done our
best to be courteous and she might at least
have said good-by.  I presume she has gone
to Tante's New York apartment.  Do you
think we should telegraph and say she is
no longer here."

Sally shook her head.

"Not for the present, but of course we
must tell Aunt Betty and Dan and learn
their opinion.  Wait another moment, please."

Returning to the empty drawers, Sally
began searching diligently underneath the
neatly folded papers lining each one.  Finally
she removed them.

"I thought it barely possible Juliet might
have left a note for Tante.  She understands
that she is to return in another
thirty-six hours and probably would wish
to explain to her."

"Here is a letter, Sally, addressed to
Mrs. Richard Burton and sealed with
sealing wax!" Bettina exclaimed, having
answered Sally's suggestion by entering the
adjoining room and slipping her hand under
one of the pillows of Mrs. Burton's bed.

"I presume this letter does inform Tante
why Juliet found existence with the Camp
Fire girls by the blue lagoon so disagreeable
that she could not endure the experience
during the week of her absence.  Well,
I am just as glad we discovered the letter
and grateful to you, Sally, for the idea.  I
never have pretended that you do not
understand human nature better than the
rest of us, although no one would guess the
fact except through long acquaintance with
you.  Juliet, I suppose, never dreamed that
we would search Tante's bed for the
concealed letter and so believed it would not
be unearthed until her return.  I don't
know what gave me the inspiration to look
there?  Personally I wish Juliet had
vanished from Tante's life for all time, rather
than until the close of her visit to us.  Let
us go down to the drawing-room and make
our report.  I'll bear the letter with me
and see if mother thinks we should dare
open it."

"No, I do not consider it wise to open
Polly's letter," Mrs. Graham stated ten
minutes later.  "She is so unnecessarily
sensitive about the girl, I don't wish her to
feel that we regard Juliet's behavior as
more than ordinarily discourteous.  I am
relieved that she planned her disappearance,
so she is not in any trouble.  Polly will
decide what is best when she learns what
Juliet wishes her to know.  Put the letter
in Polly's room, please, Bettina, dear, not
under her pillow, that seems to imply
secrecy; lay it upon her desk where she
will be apt to observe it soon after her
arrival.  Thank goodness, she will be at
home after another day and two nights.
She has been with me so little in the past
years I begrudge the loss of each day."

Bettina sat down on the arm of her mother's chair.

"Is Aunt Patricia coming with Tante,
mother, you have not said?"

"Yes, I think so, I have had a room made
ready, although in Polly's last letter Aunt
Patricia still seemed to be arguing the
question.  I never have had much doubt,
however, that she finally would do what
Polly insists upon.

"However, the battle will not be severe,
as Aunt Patricia is longing to surrender."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RETURN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RETURN

.. vspace:: 2

The entire house party was down at
the landing to meet the little boat
which was to bring the Camp Fire
guardian back to the "House by the Blue Lagoon."

She was seen standing on the deck looking
younger and slighter than ever with
Miss Patricia Lord's tall, gaunt figure
beside her.

The instant the boat reached the shore,
after receiving an enthusiastic welcome,
Alice Ashton and Vera Lagerloff took Miss
Patricia by the arm in an effort to separate
her from the others, while Bettina, Sally,
Mary Gilchrist, Marguerite Arnot and the
two younger girls, Elce and Maida,
surrounded Mrs. Burton.

Mrs. Graham seized the opportunity to
whisper as she kissed her friend.

"Hail, the conquering hero comes, Polly!"
to have the other woman murmur:

"Oh, do be careful, please, Betty.  I'll
tell you everything when we are alone.
You don't know what I have been through
and how little like a conqueror I feel."

Then Mrs. Graham left her and supplanted
Alice by Miss Patricia's side.

"Don't you think Polly is looking pretty
well, Aunt Patricia?"

Pausing in her long strides, Miss Patricia
frowned.

"Fairly well, better perhaps that I
expected, but never so strong as we would have
her, Betty.  However, she is a wilful
woman and it cannot be helped.  It has
nearly broken my heart, Betty, to have
been separated from her so long, and the
fault was altogether her own.  Polly agrees
that it was."

"Certainly, Aunt Patricia, if you and
Polly feel this to be true, I have no thought
of differing with you.  Here is David Hale
wanting to speak to you.  Bettina and I gave
our masculine guests the instruction this
morning that they were to keep in the
background until we were allowed to welcome
you.  You and David are such old friends
he seems not to intend to wait his turn."

"I insist that Miss Patricia allow me to
carry her bag.  I have seen her decline to
allow Miss Ashton or Miss Lagerloff to
touch it, but whether it contains bonds or
precious stones I will not run away with it,
Aunt Patricia."

Entering her own room, followed by
Mrs. Graham and Miss Lord, Mrs. Burton
moved quickly across and opened the door
of the room adjoining.

She then turned:

"Betty, where is Juliet? I wondered
why she did not come to meet me with the
other girls and now she is not in her room.
Is anything the matter?"

Picking up the letter from the desk
Mrs. Graham extended it toward her friend.

"I don't think so, Polly, although I
scarcely know.  Juliet Temple left here
without telling me that she intended to
leave; it was only a day or so ago and we
decided it best to await your return.  The
letter she addressed to you will probably
explain.  We concluded that she was homesick
without you here and has gone to your
apartment."

"I am sorry, Betty, I am afraid Juliet
has not been polite, when I especially asked
your permission to allow her to join us.

"Juliet Temple has written me that she
has forged my check for two thousand five
hundred dollars and has gone with her
brother to Canada.  She is perfectly frank,
poor child, and tells how and why.  The
fault is partly through my carelessness!  A
few days before I left Juliet asked me to
sign a check for two hundred and fifty
dollars for the rent of my New York
apartment.  I was in a hurry at the time and I
believe took her word for it and did not
look at the check.  She tells me she had
so arranged that she could change the
amount, which she did at once.

"Her brother was in the army and
stationed not far from here.  She has been
in the habit of seeing him since we have
been on the island.  Juliet has always
insisted that he was the one person in the
world she cared for and that he had given
her nothing but sorrow.  It seems that he
has been committing a number of offences
and expected to be court-martialed, but
instead of submitting, had planned to desert.
For his sake Juliet appears to have lost all
sense of honor or duty toward me.  She
seems convinced that I will not prosecute
her.  She tells me she was leaving
immediately for New York, where she will have
the check cashed (she is in the habit of
cashing my checks).  Afterwards, she and
her brother intend to make their home in
Canada and never return to the United
States!  A pretty desperate situation, isn't it?"

"Yes, Polly, but I'll telegraph to
Anthony in Washington and, if it can be
accomplished, he will see that the girl is
found and brought back.  I am so distressed
for you, it is such a large sum of
money and you have trusted the girl so
completely."

"Yes, Betty, but I don't want Juliet
found and punished.  I have no right to
feel or behave like this and every one of
you must say exactly what you like to me.
I know I am absolutely wrong and that she
ought to be made to suffer the legal penalty,
but I simply haven't the force of character
or the courage.  I could not endure to
think of a girl who has been so near me,
who has lived as a member of my family
and been good to me in many small ways,
shut up in prison for the rest of her youth."

"Yes, Polly, I know, let us not talk of
this now.  Painful as it is, you cannot
allow yourself to be so sentimental and
cowardly, dear!  Besides, the money is a
great deal more than you and Richard can
possibly afford to lose!"

"Goodness, I had forgotten that!  It is
not only *more* than we can afford to lose, it is
nearly all the money we possess at present.
Juliet must have known.  We saved from
the amount I earned last winter only what
we thought sufficient to last through the
summer, until I returned to work in the
autumn; the rest Richard has devoted to
the payments he and I feel called upon to make."

"Yes, and a nice time, Polly Burton, for
you to assume the added responsibility of
an old woman to support!" Miss Patricia
said harshly.

"Do you think, Aunt Patricia, that this
is the time for you to say unkind things to
me?  Don't you think I have a good deal
to bear and that you might not make it
harder?"

Too overcome to speak, Miss Patricia
nodded and actually two tears rolled
unchecked down her gaunt cheeks.

"I am afraid Richard will be terribly
worried and annoyed over my carelessness,"
Mrs. Burton said childishly.

"Richard Burton!  Let him dare utter a
word!  Who was it brought that unpleasant
girl, whom I never liked at any time,
into our home at Half Moon Lake?  I
remember his saying something or other
about being a knight errant!"  Miss Patricia
snorted, and the girls, Polly Burton
and Betty Graham broke into hysterical
laughter that saved the situation.

"I fear that from the first Juliet Temple
realized that I was an easy person to deceive.
In her letter she also confides the fact that
when she told me she had been wrongfully
accused in her office in Washington, she
did this in order that I might be impressed
with the idea that she would not have
confessed had she been guilty.[\*]  Well, at
least I rejoice that you girls were never
deceived by her and that Juliet was never
a member of our Sunrise Camp Fire.  Let
us speak of her as little as possible in the
future."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[\*] See "Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake."

.. vspace:: 2

"And Polly, you are not to worry over
money; of course Anthony and I are not
rich, but you may have anything that we
possess.  Why not make me the happiest
of human beings and you and Aunt
Patricia and Richard spend the summer here
with me in the 'House by the Blue Lagoon'?
You may do whatever you wish and we'll
not trouble you," Mrs. Graham urged.

"You are an angel, Betty, but Aunt
Patricia and Richard and I must hide
somewhere where I can work and study, if I can
find a play for next winter.  Now may I
lie down for a little while?"

A few moments later, in Miss Patricia's
bedroom, she and her hostess continued the
discussion.

"What do you think, Aunt Patricia?
Ought we allow Polly to permit this girl to
go free, in spite of her deceit and treachery?"

"I don't know what else is possible,
Betty.  Polly is wrong, she nearly always
is wrong, and yet to punish the girl would
have a most disastrous effect upon her.
There is a sweetness about her and a
generosity; Polly has been most generous and
sweet to me, Betty, when I have behaved
very badly and so I would not care to
influence her, if I could, to be severe upon
any one else."

"Don't, Aunt Patricia, speak of yourself
in any such connection!  But about the
money, Polly will never allow us to help
her.  She never would accept anything
from anyone save you, and now you can
no longer afford to help."

A moment Miss Patricia sat crumpling
a large, masculine-looking handkerchief in
her capable hands, while a flush spread
over her face that amazed her companion.

"Betty Graham, I desire to make a confession
to you and to request you to keep
my secret until such time as I may be
willing to speak of it myself.  The truth is
I am not so poor as I have allowed you and
Polly and the Camp Fire girls to believe.
I have lost money, my home for French
orphans is costing twice the amount I had
expected it would cost, and I have found
it an excellent arrangement to rent my
house near Boston and to live as economically
as possible, but I am not a pauper.
Now do use your intelligence and understand
why I have wished you to be deceived.

"Apparently I had hopelessly estranged
Polly and had reached a point where I
could not any longer endure being apart
from her.  Some weeks ago she sent me
word through Richard that never so long
as she lived would she accept anything
more at my hands and that she had
entreated me to make friends with her for
the last time.  There are occasions you
know when Polly can be singularly
obstinate.  So what was I to do?  Appeal to
her sympathy, make her believe there was
something she could do for me.  Mavourneen,
I knew she would fly to my rescue.
So I sent out the word and she came and
now I shall be parted from her no more.
But, Betty, my dear, Polly shall never
suffer.  Do not believe that I shall fail to
keep sufficient money to see she has all she
desires.  For the present let us have our
little house and our summer together and
Polly the belief that she is caring for me.
I shall dread the day when she learns what
I have told you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE ETERNAL WAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ETERNAL WAY

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  The Eternal Way lies before him,
   |  The Way that is made manifest in the Wise.
   |  The Heart that loves reveals itself to man,
   |  For now he draws nigh to the Source,
   |  The night advances fast,
   |  And lo! the moon shines bright.
   |

"Will you come into the garden
for a farewell talk with me,
Bettina?  You know, I leave
for Washington in the morning."

"In a quarter of an hour, David.  I must
see that my two small girls are in bed before
I join you.  Suppose you wait for me on
the beach near the sun dial."

The night was warm and instead of sitting
down David Hale walked about, thinking of
a very different garden where first he had
met Bettina Graham, the "Queen's Secret
Garden", near "The Little Trianon" in the
great park at Versailles.

He remembered his own surprise upon
discovering an American girl half asleep in
the shadow of a group of statuary and
startled into wakefulness by his unexpected
approach.

So their acquaintance had begun in a
romantic setting that David thought never
to find repeated.  To-night he was by no
means sure the surroundings were not
equally lovely.

The moon was rising before the afterglow
had wholly faded.  A light breeze made the
delicate green leaves rustle on a hundred
nearby trees, the magnolias were in bloom
over the entire island, scenting the night
air with their heavy, tropical fragrance.

In the moonlight and the last of the
purple twilight, David Hale was devoting
little attention to these details.  He was
thinking with the concentration over which
he had a special mastery, of something he
wished to say to Bettina Graham and of
how he had best say it.

She waved a long blue scarf as she came
running down the path toward him.

"I did not keep you waiting long, David,
did I?  I am sorry you must go to-morrow,
but then the house party will break up in
another week or ten days and I am returning
to New York.  After all, it is a shorter
journey for you to come back to the 'House
by the Blue Lagoon' than for me, and you
know mother and Marguerite Arnot are
always pleased to see you.  I wish I could
reach here so easily; for a number of
reasons it is going to be very hard to leave
the island, our island.  I have a fashion of
saying 'our island' over again to myself
every now and then because it seems so
incredible that we can own such an
exquisite spot and that it is no farther away
from the outside world.  Why, except that
it is not tropical, we might almost deceive
ourselves into believing that we were on
one of the south sea islands!"

"Then why do you go, Bettina, unless
you wish?  There certainly can be no other
reason and your mother will be distressed
at your departure.  It is so impossible for
me to understand your point of view.  Your
home is here and no other place can be so
beautiful!"

"I know, David," Bettina answered
gently, "and yet I have tried so often to
explain to you and to other people: beautiful
as this place is and loving it as I do,
yet my work and life are no more here than
your own.  You are going back to Washington,
David; you are very ambitious and
some day intend to have a political career.
Suppose this were your home instead of
mine, would you stay here always?  Would
you give up your work and your ambition
and your future to live in an island of
dreams?

"No, of course you would not?  Then
why do you think I should?  Oh, I know
the answer, I have gone into the subject so
many times--because I am a girl and there
is no reason why I should devote myself
to social work, when my father is a man of
prominence and some wealth and my
mother all that is sweet and charming and
popular.  I am not going to talk about
myself, only you do know my reason and
you could understand my point of view if
you would make the effort.  Instead of
caring less for my work after a few months
of effort and experience, I care more than
at the beginning."

"I am sorry, Bettina."

Bettina laughed.

"Why should you be?  Mother and
father are becoming more reconciled."

She and David had not ceased walking
now they stopped and Bettina leaned over
the sun dial.

"I am glad our garden boasts a sun dial,
as it would not be half so picturesque
without, yet the inscription is curious and taken
from an ancient Japanese poem, which
would seem to make it a moon dial and
appropriate to-night, David.  I can repeat
it because I think I know the poem by
heart:

   |  "The Eternal Way lies before him,
   |  The Way that is made manifest in the Wise.
   |  The Heart that loves reveals itself to man
   |  For now he draws nigh to the Source,
   |  The night advances fast,
   |  And lo! the moon shines bright.

"See David, even in the poem the Way
lies before *him*, not before *her*."

"There is only one way that I wish lay
before you, Bettina, the way of learning to
care for me.  Please don't interrupt me,
this cannot be altogether a surprise to you.
I think I tried to make you see how I felt
toward you at the beginning of our
acquaintance, although I did my best to wait
until your mother and father had learned
to know something of me and until you
were older.  I would wait now if you were
not becoming so absorbed in the work
you have undertaken that I am afraid you
will lose all interest in me.  My dear
Bettina, affection is the supreme thing and
if you will only wait and have faith in me,
some day I may be able to offer you a
name and a future of which you may be proud."

Bettina shook her head.

"David, I am glad you said this to me,
as I wish to be perfectly frank.  No, I am
not altogether surprised, yet I am going to
sound as if I were unappreciative and
unkind.  I not only don't care for you in the
way you desire, but I never could learn to
care.  I dread the whole thought of romance
and sincerely hope it may never come into
my life.  I have my work and my family and
friends and please never speak of this again."

"But if it should come, Bettina, when
you are older and wiser and less self-absorbed,
would I, could I have any chance
with you then?"

"No, David Hale, never; from the first
I have never wanted you to be anything
but my friend.  Please let me say good-by
and good luck to you.  There is some one
else in the garden and I am afraid we
might be overheard."

"Good-night, and good-by for a long
time, Bettina.  I am sorry to have troubled you."

As Bettina ran on, Robert Burton stepped
in front of her.

"You are not going indoors on a night
like this, Miss Graham!  Why not stay
and talk to me for a while?  I don't know
what the other fellow has done to make
you in such haste, but I shall try to be
more agreeable.  You have been very kind
to have asked me here, but I have seen less
of my hostess than I counted on seeing.

"Remember when we are back in New
York you have promised to take me to one
of your settlement houses and make me
useful, if it is possible that an idle fellow
like I am can be useful to anyone."

"Yes, no, thank you, but I must go in,"
Bettina protested.  "Nothing has
happened, but I am in a good deal of a hurry.
Why are you idle?  Please understand I
don't wish you to help with the settlement
work on my account, not unless you feel
a deep interest in the work itself."

"Yes?  Well, that is one way of stating
the case," Robert Burton answered.
"Wasn't I a good Samaritan when you
were lost in New York?"

Bettina did not answer, already having
vanished up the path toward the house.

At the same moment that Bettina was
escaping in one direction, Mary Gilchrist
was hurrying down the front lawn toward
the lagoon in search of Allan Drain.

She was a good deal excited and
considerably out of breath.

Allan appeared extremely comfortable
lying on the bottom of the anchored boat
with his face upturned to the sky.

"Oh, Allan, I have the most wonderful
news for you!" Gill exclaimed, giving a
flying leap and landing in the bottom of the
boat which rocked dangerously at her
descent.

"If you have, Gill, I think it your duty
not to attempt to drown me before I
am able to hear it," Allan expostulated,
straightening up and removing the sofa
cushions upon which he had been resting
and tossing one of them to Gill.

"Really, Gill, of late you have been
returning to those boyish habits and
manners which I found so reprehensible in you
at the beginning of our acquaintance.
After you have confided to me your thrilling
information do you think you can sit
calm and speechless in this boat for the
next half hour?

"I had escaped from the others in order
to enjoy a little peace and solitude, which
is so difficult to attain upon a house party.
You may not have intended it, but at the
instant you plunged into this boat I am
under the impression that you destroyed
an immortal sonnet.  I cannot recall a line
at present, that is why I feel so convinced
it was immortal."

"A thousand times I crave your pardon,
Allan Drain.  You know I have a fashion
of banishing your poetic muse.  However,
return to your poetizing, I can sit here in
silence for a half hour or more *before* telling
you my wonderful news just as readily as
*after* telling it to you."

Five minutes passed.

Finally Allan yawned.

"See here, Gill, I think you might
confide what you came to say.  I have an
idea that it is of small importance--girls'
secrets usually are--but it bores me to
have you sit there with your lips tightly
pressed together, as if the words would
rush through otherwise, and your face white
and your eyes shining.  If any good fortune
has come to you, Gill, please tell me.  You
know how glad I shall be."

"The good fortune is not mine, it is
yours, only it is mine also because I am
so glad for you."

"Then let me hear what it is.  I know
you too well to believe you would try to
deceive me," Allan answered, as if he were
fighting against a hope he dared not permit
himself to hold.

"It cannot be possible that Mrs. Burton
has a good word to say for my play!"

"More than that, Allan, she is very
enthusiastic.  Now do keep still and I
shall tell you everything I know.  The
night of her return to the 'House by the
Blue Lagoon', Mrs. Burton was feeling
restless and unhappy over something that
was troubling her a great deal, and so was
unable to sleep.  She rose up out of bed
and wrote a letter to her husband; when
she had finished, as your play was in her
desk, she picked it up and began looking it
over, with no thought of actually reading
it at the time.  Something interested her,
a line, or a character, and she read on until
she had finished.  When she lay the play
down and turned off the electric light dawn
had come.  Still she remained unable to
sleep."

"You mean she was thinking of my play?"

"Yes, Allan, I do mean that, she was
thinking of it, but she was distrusting her
own judgment and determined to wait until
a day or more had passed in order to read
the play again before arriving at a decision
or speaking to any one concerning it.

"This afternoon she read it for the second
time and after dinner asked Mrs. Graham
and Aunt Patricia and me to come into her
sitting-room.  She explained that she asked
me rather than any one of the other Camp
Fire girls, because of late we have appeared
to be special friends and because accidentally
I gave your play its title: 'The Red
Flower'.  She told me I was to come and
tell you how much she liked it before she
spoke to you herself, so that perhaps you
would forgive me for the loss of your poems
a year ago.

"Allan, why don't you say something?
What is the matter?  I simply go on talking
in this stupid fashion because you won't
speak."

"I can't, Gill, not for a moment, the
wonder and surprise and happiness are too
great.  Now Mrs. Burton likes my play
I shall be willing to consign it to the flames
from whence it received its name."

"Foolish boy, do you suppose I believe
you?  I ought not to tell you this, because
I was not given the right, although no one
said I must not speak of it.  Mrs. Burton
wants to play 'The Red Flower' next
winter, if her manager thinks the play half
so fine as she thinks it.  She is to telegraph
him in the morning to come to the island
and give her his opinion.  If they agree
she wants to remain here on the island in
one of the small fishermen's cottages, which
can be done over, and study and work for a
part of the summer.  There will probably
be changes that must be made, so she wants
you to spend a part of the time here if it is
possible for you."

There was no reply, save that leaning
over, Allan lifted the anchor.  Then taking
both oars he pulled rapidly out into the
centre of the blue lagoon and onward toward
the bay.

"Don't be frightened, Gill, I'll not get
into a difficulty to-night.  This is the
greatest moment of my life and I cannot
sit still and accept it calmly.  I want to
feel myself a part of all this, of the water
and the sky and of creation itself.  Don't
laugh at me and don't trouble to understand,
only thank you and know that I
would rather you had shared this moment
with me than any one else.  We are friends
now, Gill, for all time, whatever may seem
to separate us in the future, we must both
recall this hour and the beauty and peace
of the Blue Lagoon!"



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK

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   THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES

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The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge
The Ranch Girls' Pot of Gold
The Ranch Girls at Boarding School
The Ranch Girls in Europe
The Ranch Girls at Home Again
The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure
The Ranch Girls and their Heart's Desire
The Ranch Girls and the Silver Arrow
The Ranch Girls and the Mystery of the Three Roads

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   STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

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

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   THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES

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The Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing
The Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest
The Girl Scouts of the Round Table
The Girl Scouts in Mystery Valley
The Girl Scouts and the Open Road

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