were brilliant cardinal flowers, pale forget-me-nots, slender blossomed
blue vervain, cheerful red lilies. In places where the woods were so
thick that the sun never penetrated, great logs lay about completely
covered with moss, looking like sofas upholstered in green, while the
round stones scattered about everywhere looked like hassocks and
footstools which belonged to the same set as the green sofas.

Once Mary stopped and crushed something under her foot, something white
that grew up beside the path.

"What was that?" asked Agony curiously.

"Deadly amanita," replied Mary. "It's a toadstool--a poisonous one."

"How can you tell a poisonous toadstool from a harmless one?" asked
Agony. "They all look alike to me."

"A poisonous one has a ring around the stem, and it grows up out of a
'poison cup,'" explained Mary. "See, here are some more."

Agony drew back as Mary pointed out another clump of the pale spores,
innocent enough looking in their resemblance to the edible mushroom, but
base villians at heart; veritable Borgias of the woods.

"Aren't you afraid to touch it?" asked Agony, as Mary tilted over a
sickly looking head and indicated the identifying ring and the poison
cup.

"No danger," replied Mary. "They're only poisonous if you eat them."

"You know a great deal about the woods, don't you?" Agony said
respectfully.

"I ought to," replied Mary. "I've camped in the woods for five summers.
You can't help finding out a few things, you know, even if you're as
stupid as I."

"You're not stupid!" said Agony emphatically, glad of the opportunity to
pay a compliment. "I'm the stupid one about things like that. I never
could remember all those things you call woodcraft. I declare, I've
forgotten already whether it's the poisonous ones that have the rings,
or the other kind."

Mary laughed and stood unconcernedly while a small snake ran over her
foot. "It's a good thing Miss Peckham isn't here," she remarked. "Did
you ever see anything so funny as that coral snake business of hers?"
she added, laughing good naturedly. "Poor Miss Peckham won't be allowed
to forget that episode all summer. It's too bad she resents it so. She
could get no end of fun out of it if she could only see the funny side."

"Yes, it's too bad," agreed Agony. "The more she resents it the more the
girls will tease her about it."

"I'm sorry for her," continued Mary. "She's never had any experience
being a councilor and it's all new to her. She's never been teased
before. She'll soon see that it happens to everybody else, too, and then
she'll feel differently about it. Look at the way everybody makes fun of
Tiny Armstrong's blanket, and her red bathing suit, and her gaudy
stockings; but she never gets cross about it. Tiny's a wonder," she
added enthusiastically. "Did you see her demonstrating the Australian
Crawl yesterday in swimming hour? She has a stroke like the propeller of
a boat. I never saw anything so powerful."

"If Tiny ever assaulted anyone in earnest there wouldn't be anything
left of them," said Agony. "She's a regular Amazon. They ought to call
her Hypolita instead of Tiny."

"And yet, she's just as gentle as she is powerful," replied Mary. "She
wouldn't hurt a fly if she could help it. Neither would she do anything
mean to anybody, or show partiality in the swimming tests. She's
absolutely fair and square; that's why all the girls accept her
decisions without a complaint, even when they're disappointed. Everybody
says she is the best swimming teacher they've ever had here at camp.
Once they had an instructor who had a special liking for a certain girl
who couldn't manage to learn to swim, and because that girl was wild to
go in a canoe on one of the trips the instructor pretended that she had
given her an individual test on the afternoon before the trip, and told
Mrs. Grayson the girl had passed it. The girl was allowed to go in a
canoe and on the trip it upset and she was very nearly drowned before
the others realized that she could not swim. Tiny isn't like that," she
continued. "She would lose her best friend rather than tell a lie to get
her a favor that she didn't deserve. I hate cheats!" she burst out
vehemently, her fine eyes flashing. "If girls can't win honors fairly
they ought to go without them."

This random conversation upon one and another of the phases of camp
life, illustrating as it did Mary's rigid code of honor, was destined to
recur many times to Agony in the weeks that followed, with a poignant
force that etched every one of Mary's speeches ineradicably upon her
brain. Just now it was nothing more to her than small talk to which she
replied in kind.

They stopped after a bit to drink from a clear spring that bubbled up in
the path, and sat down to rest awhile under a huge tree. Mary leaned her
head back against the trunk and drawing a small book from her sweater
pocket she opened it upon her knee.

"What is the book?" asked Agony.

"_The Desert Garden_, by Edwin Langham," replied Mary.

"Oh, do you know _The Desert Garden_?" cried Agony in delighted wonder.
"I've actually lived on that book for the last two years. I'm wild about
Edwin Langham. I've read every word he's ever written. Have you read
_The Silent Years_?"

Mary nodded.

"_The Lost Chord_? I think that's the most wonderful book I've ever
read, that and _The Desert Garden._ If I could ever see and speak to
Edwin Langham I should die from happiness. I've never felt that way
about any other author. When I read his books I feel reverent somehow,
as if I were in church, although there isn't a word of religion in them.
The things he writes are so fine and true and noble; he must be that way
himself. Do you remember that part about the bird in _The Desert Garden,
_ the bird with the broken wing, that would never fly again, singing to
the lame man who would never walk? And the flower that was so determined
to blossom that it grew in the desert and bloomed there?"

"Yes," answered Mary, "it was very beautiful."

"It's the most beautiful thing that was ever written!" declared Agony
enthusiastically. "It would be the greatest joy of my life to see the
man who wrote those books."

"Maybe you will, some day," said Mary, rising from her mossy seat and
preparing to take the path again.

It was not long after that that they came to the edge of the woods, and
saw before them the scattered houses of the little village of Atlantis.
Mary's old nurse was overjoyed to see her, and pressed the two girls to
stay and eat big soft ginger cookies on the shady back porch, and quench
their thirst with glasses of cool milk, while she inquired minutely
after the health of Mary's "ma" and "pa."

"Mrs. Simmons is the best old nurse that ever was," said Mary to Agony,
as they took their way back to the woods an hour later. "I'm so glad to
have had this opportunity of paying her a visit. I haven't seen her for
nearly ten years. Wasn't she funny, though, when I told her that father
might have to go to Japan in the interests of his firm? She thought
there was nobody in Japan but heathens and missionaries."

"Shall you go to Japan too, if your father goes?" asked Agony.

"I most likely shall," replied Mary. "I finished my school this June and
do not intend to go to college for another year anyway; so I might as
well have the trip and the experience of living in a foreign country.
Father would only have to remain there one year, or two at the most."

"How soon are you going?" asked Agony, a little awed by Mary's casual
tone as she spoke of the great journey. Evidently Mary had traveled
much, for the prospect of going around the world did not seem to excite
her in the least.

They were sitting in Mrs. Simmons' little spring house when Mary told
about the possibility of her going to Japan. This spring house stood at
some distance from the house; down at the point where the lane ran off
from the main road. It looked so utterly cool and inviting, with its
vine covered walls, that with an exclamation of pleasure the two girls
turned aside for one more drink before beginning the long walk through
the woods.

Seated upon the edge of the basin which held the water, Mary talked of
Japan, and Agony wheeled around upon the narrow ledge to gaze at her in
wonder and envy.

"I wish _I_ could go to Japan!" she exclaimed vehemently, giving a
vigorous kick with her foot to express her longing. The motion disturbed
her balance and she careened over sidewise; Mary put out her hand to
steady her, lost _her_ balance, and went with a splash into the basin.
The water was not deep, but it was very, very wet, and Mary came out
dripping.

For a moment the two girls stood helpless with laughter; then Mary said:
"I suppose I'll have to go back and get some dry things from Mrs.
Simmons, but I wish I didn't; it will take us quite a while to go back,
and it will delay us considerably. I promised Mrs. Grayson I'd be back
in camp before dark, and we won't be able to make it if we go back to
Mrs. Simmons's. I've a good mind to go on just as I am; it's so hot I
can't possibly take cold."

"I tell you what we can do," said Agony, getting a sudden inspiration.
"We can divide these bloomers of mine in half. They're made on a
foundation of thinner material that will do very well for me to wear
home, and you can wear the green part. With your sweater on over them
nobody will ever know whether you have on a middy or not. We can carry
you wet suit on a pole through the woods and it'll be dry by the time we
get home, and you won't have to lose any time by going back to Mrs.
Simmons's."

"Great idea!" said Mary, brightening. "Are you really willing to divide
your bloomers? I'd be ever so much obliged."

"It's no trouble," replied Agony. "All I have to do is cut the threads
where the top is tacked on to the foundation. It's really two pairs of
bloomers." She was already cutting the tacking threads with her pocket
knife.

Mary put on the green bloomers and Agony the brown foundation pair, and
laughing over the mishap and the clever way of handling the problem, the
two crossed the road and entered the woods.

"What's that loud cheeping noise?" Agony asked almost as soon as they
had entered into the deep shadow of the high pines.

"Sounds like a bird in trouble," answered Mary, her practised ear
recognizing the note of distress in the incessant twittering.

A few steps farther they came upon a man sitting in a wheel chair under
one of the tallest pines they had ever seen, a man whose right foot was
so thickly wrapped in bandages that it was three times the size of the
other one. He was peering intently up into the tree above him, and did
not notice the approach of the two girls. Mary and Agony followed his
gaze and saw, high up among the topmost swaying branches, a sight that
thrilled them with pity and distress. Dangling by a string which was
tangled about one of her feet, hung a mother robin, desperately
struggling to get free, fluttering, fluttering, beating the air
frantically with her wings and uttering piercing cries of anguish that
drove the hearers almost to desperation. Nearby was her nest, and on
the edge of it sat the mate, uttering cries as shrill with anguish as
those of the helpless captive.

"Oh, the poor, poor bird!" cried Mary, her eyes filling with tears of
pity and grief. At the sound of her voice the man in the wheel chair
lowered his eyes and became aware of the girls' presence. As he turned
to look at them Mary caught in his eyes a look of infinite horror and
pity at the plight of the wretched bird above him. That expression
deepened Mary's emotion; the tears began to run down her cheeks. Agony
stood beside her stricken and silent.

"How did it happen?" Mary asked huskily, addressing the stranger
unceremoniously.

"I don't know exactly," replied the man. "I was sitting here reading
when all of a sudden I heard the bird's shrill cry of distress and
looked up to see her dangling there at the end of that string."

"Can't we do something?" asked Mary, putting her hands over her ears to
shut out the piercing cries. "She'll flutter herself to death before
long."

"I'm afraid she will," replied the man, "There doesn't seem to be any
hope of her freeing herself."

"She shan't flutter herself to death," said Mary, with sudden
resolution. "I'm going to climb the tree and cut her loose."

"That will be impossible," said the man. "She is up in the very top of
the tree."

"I'm going to try, anyway," replied Mary, with spirit. "Let me take
your knife, will you please, Agony?"

The lowest branches of the pine were far above her head, and in order to
get a foothold in them Mary had to climb a neighboring tree and swing
herself across. The ground seemed terrifying far away even from this
lowest branch; but this was only the beginning. She resolutely refrained
from looking down and kept on steadily, branch above branch, until she
reached the one from which the robin hung. Then began the most perilous
part of the undertaking. To reach the bird she must crawl out on this
branch for a distance of at least six feet, there being no limb directly
underneath for her to walk out on. Praying for a steady balance, she
swung herself astride of the branch, and holding on tightly with her
hands began hitching herself slowly outward. The bough bent sickeningly
under her; Agony below shrieked and covered her eyes; then opened them
again and continued to gaze in horrified fascination as inch by inch
Mary neared the wildly fluttering bird, whose terror had increased a
hundred-fold at the human presence so near it.

There came an ominous cracking sound; Agony uttered another shriek and
turned away; the next instant the shrill cries of the bird ceased; the
man in the chair gave vent to a long drawn "Ah-h!" Agony looked up to
see the exhausted bird fluttering to the ground beside her, a length of
string still hanging to its foot, while Mary slowly and carefully
worked her way back to the trunk of the tree. In a few minutes she slid
to the ground and sat there, breathless and trembling, but triumphant.

"I got it!" she panted. Then, turning to the man in the chair, she
exclaimed, "There now, who said it was impossible?"

The man applauded vigorously. "That was the bravest act I have ever seen
performed," he said admiringly. "You're the right stuff, whoever you
are, and I take my hat off to you."

"Anybody would have done it," murmured Mary modestly, as she rose and
prepared to depart.

"How could you do it?" marveled Agony, as the two walked homeward
through the woods. "Weren't you horribly scared?"

"Yes, I was," admitted Mary frankly. "When I started to go out on that
branch I was shaking so that I could hardly hold on. It seemed miles to
the ground, and I got so dizzy I turned faint for a moment. But I tried
to think of something else, and kept on going, and pretty soon I could
reach the string to cut it."

The boundless admiration with which Agony regarded Mary's act of bravery
was gradually swallowed up in envy. Why hadn't she herself been the one
to climb up and rescue that poor bird? She would give anything to have
done such a spectacular thing. Deep in her heart, however, she knew she
would never have had the courage to crawl out on that branch even if she
had thought of it first.

Silence fell upon the two girls as they walked along in the gradually
failing light; all topics of conversation seemed to have been exhausted.
Mary's clothes were dry before they were through the woods, and she put
them on to save the trouble of carrying them, giving Agony back her
green bloomers.

"Thank you so much for letting me wear them," she said earnestly. "If it
hadn't been for your doing that I wouldn't have been in time to save
that robin. It was really that inspiration of yours that saved him, not
my climbing the tree."

Even in the hour of her triumph Mary was eager to give the credit to
someone else, and Agony began to feel rather humble and small before
such a generous spirit, even though her vanity strove to accept the
measure of credit given as justly due.

When they were crossing the river they saw Dr. Grayson standing on the
dock, shading his eyes to look over the water.

"There's the Doctor, looking for us!" exclaimed Mary. "It must be late
and he's worried about us." She doubled her speed with the oars, hailing
the Doctor across the water to reassure him. A few moments later the
boat touched the dock.

"Mary," said the Doctor, before she was fairly out, "a message has come
from your father saying that he must sail for Japan one week from today
and you must come home immediately. In order to catch the boat you will
have to leave for San Francisco not later than the day after tomorrow.
There is an early train for New York tomorrow morning from Green's
Landing. I will take you down in the launch, for the river steamer will
not get there in time. Be ready to leave camp at half past five tomorrow
morning. You will have to pack tonight."

Mary gasped and clutched Agony's hand convulsively.

"I have--to--leave--camp!" she breathed faintly.
"I'm--going--to--Japan!"




CHAPTER VI


A CAMP HEROINE

Mary Sylvester was gone. Sung to and wept over by her friends and
admirers, who had risen at dawn to see her off, she had departed with
Dr. Grayson in the camp launch just as the sun was beginning to gild the
ripples on the surface of the river. She left behind her many grief
stricken hearts.

"Camp won't be camp without Mary!" Bengal Virden had sobbed, trickling
tearfully back to Ponemah with a long tress of black hair clutched
tightly in her hand--a souvenir which she had begged from Mary at the
moment of parting. Next to Pom-pom, Mary Sylvester was Bengal's greatest
crush. "I'm going to put it under my pillow and sleep on it every
night," Bengal had sniffed tearfully, displaying the tress to her
tentmates.

"What utter nonsense!" Miss Peckham had remarked with a contemptuous
sniff. Miss Peckham considered the fuss they were making over Mary's
departure perfectly ridiculous, and was decidely cross because Bengal
had awakened her with her lamenting before the bugle blew.

Migwan and Gladys, on the other hand, remembering their own early
"crushes," managed not to smile at Bengal's sentimental foolishness
about the lock of hair, and Gladys gravely gave her a hand-painted
envelope to keep the precious tress in.

Completely tired out by the long tramp of the day before, Agony did not
waken in time to see Mary off, and when the second bugle finally brought
her to consciousness she discovered that she had a severe headache and
did not want any breakfast. Miss Judy promptly bore her off to the
"Infirmary," a tent set off by itself away from the noises of camp, and
left her there to stay quietly by herself. In the quiet atmosphere of
the "Infirmary" she soon fell asleep again, to waken at times, listen to
the singing of the birds in the woods, feel the breezes stealing
caressingly through her hair, and then to drop back once more into
blissful drowsiness which erased from her mind all memory of yesterday's
visit to Atlantis, and of Mary Sylvester's wonderful rescue of the
robin. As yet no word of Mary's heroism had reached the ears of the
camp; she had departed without the mead of praise that was due her.

Councilors and all felt depressed over Mary's untimely departure,
especially Miss Judy, Tiny Armstrong and the Lone Wolf, with whom she
had been particularly intimate, and with these three leading spirits
cast down gloom was thick everywhere. Morning Sing went flat--the high
tenors couldn't keep in tune without Mary to lead them, and nobody else
could make the gestures for The Lone Fish Ball. It seemed strange, too,
to see Dr. Grayson's chair empty, and to do without his jolly morning
talk. Everyone who had gotten up early was full of yawns and out of
sorts.

"What's the matter with everybody?" asked Katherine of Jean Lawrence, as
they cleaned up Bedlam for tent inspection. "Camp looks like a funeral."

Jean's dimples were nowhere in evidence and her face looked unnaturally
solemn as she bent over her bed to straighten the blankets.

"It feels like one, too," replied Jean, still grave. "With Bengal crying
all over the place and Miss Judy looking so cut up it's enough to dampen
everybody's spirits."

Talk lapsed between the two and each went on cleaning up her side of the
tent. A moment later, however, Jean's dimples came back again when she
came upon Katherine's toothbrush in one of her tennis shoes. That
toothbrush had disappeared two days before and the tent had been turned
upside down in a vain search for it.

Katherine pounced upon the truant toilet article gleefully. "Look in
your other shoe," she begged Jean, "and see if you can find my fountain
pen. That's missing too."

Jean obligingly shook out her shoe, but no pen came to light.

"There's something dark in the bottom of the water pitcher," announced
Oh-Pshaw, who was setting the toilet table to rights. "Maybe that's it."

She bared her arm to the elbow and plunged it into the water, but
withdrew it immediately with a shriek that caused Katherine and Jean to
drop their bed-making in alarm.

"What's the matter?" asked Katherine.

"It's an animal, a horrid, dead animal!" Oh-Pshaw gasped shudderingly,
backing precipitously away from the water pitcher. "It's furry, and
soft, and--ugh! stiff!"

"What is it?" demanded Katherine, peering curiously into the pitcher, in
whose slightly turbid depths she could see a dark object lying.

"Don't touch it!" begged Oh-Pshaw, as Katherine's hand went down into
the water.

"Nonsense," scoffed Katherine, "a dead creature can't hurt you. See,
it's only a little mouse that fell into the pitcher and got drowned.
Poor little mousy, it's a shame he had to meet such a sad fate when he
came to visit us."

"Katherine Adams, put that mouse away!" cried Oh-Pshaw, getting around
behind the bed. "How can you bear to touch such a thing?"

"Doesn't he look pathetic, with his little paws held out that way?"
continued Katherine, unmoved by Oh-Pshaw's expression of terrified
disgust. "I don't doubt but what he was the father of a large
family--or maybe the mother--and there will be great sorrow in the nest
out in the field when he doesn't come home to supper."

"Throw it away!" commanded Oh-Pshaw.

"Let's have a funeral," suggested Jean. "Here, we can lay him out in the
lid of my writing paper box."

"Grand idea," replied Katherine, carefully depositing the deceased on
the floor beside her bed.

A few minutes later the Lone Wolf, coming along to inspect the tent,
found a black middy tie hanging from the tent post, surmounted by a
wreath of field daisies, while inside the mouse was laid out in state in
the lid of Jean's writing paper box, surrounded by flowers and leaves.

Word of the tragedy that had taken place in Bedlam was all over camp in
no time, and crowds came to gaze on the face of the departed one. A
special edition of the camp paper was gotten out, with monstrous
headlines, giving the details of the accident, and announcing the
funeral for three o'clock.

Dr. Grayson returned to camp early in the afternoon, bringing with him a
professor friend whom he had invited to spend the week-end at camp. As
the two men stepped from the launch to the landing a sound of wailing
greeted their ears; long drawn out moans, heartbroken sobs, despairing
shrieks, blood-curdling cries.

"What can be the matter?" gasped the Doctor in consternation.

He raced up the path to the bungalow and stood frozen to the spot by the
sight that greeted his eyes. Down the Alley came a procession headed by
a wheelbarrow filled with field daisies and wild red lilies, all
arranged around a pasteboard box in the center; behind the wheelbarrow
came two girls with black middy ties around their heads, carrying spades
in their hands; behind them marched, two and two, all the girls who
lived in the Alley, each with a black square over her face and all
wailing and sobbing and shrieking at the top of their voices. The
procession came to a halt in front of the bungalow porch and Katherine
Adams detached herself from the ranks. Mounting a rock, she broke out
into an impassioned funeral oration that put Mark Anthony's considerably
in the shade. She was waving her hands in an extravagant gesture to
accompany an especially eloquent passage, when she suddenly caught sight
of Dr. Grayson standing watching the proceedings.

The mourners saw her suddenly stand as if petrified, the gesture frozen
in mid air, the word on her lips chopped off in the middle as with a
knife. Following her startled glance the others also saw Dr. Grayson and
the visitor. An indescribable sound rose from the funeral train; the
transition noise of anguished wailing turning into uncontrollable
laughter; then such a shout went up that the birds dozing in the trees
overhead flew out in startled circles and went darting away with loud
squawks of alarm.

"Go on, go on," urged Dr. Grayson, with twinkling eyes, "don't let me
interrupt the flow of eloquence."

But Katherine, abashed and tongue-tied in his presence always, could not
utter another word, and, blushing furiously, slid down off the rock and
took refuge behind the daisy-covered bier. The procession, agitated by
great waves of laughter, moved on toward the woods, where the mouse was
duly interred with solemn ceremonies.

"Will your father think I'm dreadfully silly?" Katherine inquired
anxiously of Miss Judy later in the afternoon.

"Not a bit," replied Miss Judy emphatically. "He thought that mouse
funeral was the best impromptu stunt we've pulled off yet. That kind of
thing was just what camp needed today. The novelty of it got everybody
stirred up and made them hilarious. That funeral oration of yours was
the funniest thing I ever heard. Miss Amesbury thought so too. She took
it all down while you were delivering it."

"Daggers and dirks!" exclaimed Katherine, more abashed than ever.

"That made the first coup for the Alley," continued Miss Judy, exulting.
"The Avenue is green with envy. They'll rack their brains now to get up
something as clever."

"Jane Pratt didn't think it was clever," replied Katherine, trying not
to look proud at Miss Judy's compliment. "She said it was the silliest
thing she had ever seen."

"Oh,--Jane Pratt!" sniffed Miss Judy, with an expressive shrug of her
shoulders. "Jane Pratt would have something sarcastic to say about an
archangel. Don't you mind what Jane Pratt says."

From Avernus to Gitchee-Gummee the Alley rang with praises of
Katharine's cleverness.

"What's the excitement?" asked Agony wonderingly as she returned to the
bungalow in time for supper after resting quietly by herself all day.

"The best thing the Alley ever did!" replied Bengal Virden
enthusiastically, and recounted the details for Agony's benefit.

At the same moment someone started a cheer for Katherine down at the
other end of the table, and the response was actually deafening:

You're the B-E-S-T, best,
Of all the R-E-S-T, rest,
O, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time!
If you'll be M-I-N-E, mine,
I'll be T-H-I-N-E, thine,
O, I love you, I love you all the T-I-M-E, time!

Agony cheered with the others, but a little stab of envy went through
her breast, a longing to have a cheer thundered at her by the assembled
campers, to become prominent, and looked at, and sought after. Sewah had
"arrived," and now also Katherine, while she herself was still merely
"among those present."

Rather pensively she followed the Winnebagos into Mateka after supper
for evening assembly, which had been called by Dr. Grayson. Usually
there was no evening assembly; Morning Sing was the only time the whole
camp came together in Mateka with the leaders, when all the
announcements for the day were made. When there was something special to
be announced, however, the bugle sometimes sounded another assembly call
at sunset.

"I wonder what the special announcement is tonight?" Hinpoha asked,
coming up with Sewah and Agony.

"I don't think it's an announcement at all," replied Sahwah. "I think
the professor friend of Dr. Grayson's is going to make a speech. Miss
Judy said he always did when he came to camp. He's a naturalist, or
something like that."

Agony wrinkled her forehead into a slight frown. "I hope he doesn't,"
she sighed. "My head still aches and I don't feel like listening to a
speech. I'd rather go canoeing up the river, as we had first planned."

She sat down in an inconspicuous corner where she could rest her head
upon her drawn up knees, if she wished, without the professor's seeing
her, and hoped that the speech would be a short one, and that there
would still be time to go canoeing on the river after he had finished.

The professor, however, seemed to have no intention of making a speech.
He took a chair beside the fireplace and settled himself in it with the
air of one who intended to remain there for some time. It was Dr.
Grayson himself who stood up to talk.

"I have called you together," he began, "to tell you about one of the
finest actions that has ever been performed by a girl in this camp. I
heard about it from the storekeeper at Green's Landing, who was told of
it by a man who departed on one of the steamers this morning. This man,
who was staying on a farm on the Atlantis Road, and who is suffering
from blood-poison in his foot, was taken into the woods in a wheel chair
yesterday afternoon and left by himself under a great pine tree at least
a hundred feet high. In the topmost branches of this tree a mother robin
became tangled up in a string which was caught in a twig, and she hung
there by one foot, unable to free herself, fluttering herself to death.
At this time two girls came through the path in the woods, took in the
situation, and quick as thought one of them climbed the tree, swung
herself out on the high branch, and cut the robin loose.

"The man who witnessed the act did not find out the names of the two
girls, but the one who climbed the tree wore a Camp Keewaydin hat and a
dark green bloomer suit. The other was dressed in brown. I don't think
there is anyone who fails to recognize the girl who has done this heroic
thing. There is only one green bloomer suit here in camp. Mrs. Grayson
tells me that she gave Agnes Wing permission to go to Atlantis with Mary
Sylvester yesterday afternoon. Where is she? Agnes Wing, stand up."

Agony stood up in her corner of the room, her lips opened to tell Dr.
Grayson that it was Mary who happened to have on the green bloomer suit
and had climbed the tree, but her words were drowned in a cheer that
nearly raised the roof off the Craft House. Before she knew it Miss Judy
and Tiny Armstrong had seized her, set her up on their shoulders, and
were carrying her around the room, while the building fairly rocked with
applause. Thrilled and intoxicated by the cheering, Agony began to
listen to the voice of the tempter in her bosom. No one would ever know
that it had not really been she who had done the brave deed; not a soul
knew of her lending her suit to Mary because of the mishap in the
springhouse. Mary Sylvester was gone; was on her way to Japan; she would
never hear about it; and the only person who had witnessed the deed did
not know their names; he had only remembered the green bloomer suit. The
man himself was unknown, nobody at camp could ever ask him about the
affair. He had gone from the neighborhood and would never come face to
face with her and discover his mistake; the secret was safe in her
heart.

In one bound she could become the most popular girl in camp; gain the
favor of the Doctor and the councilors--especially of Miss Amesbury,
whom she was most desirous of impressing. The sight of Miss Amesbury
leaning forward with shining eyes decided the question for her. The
words trembling on her lips were choked back; she hung her head and
looked the picture of modest embarrassment, the ideal heroine.

Set down on the floor again by Tiny and Miss Judy, she hid her face on
Miss Judy's shoulder and blushed at Dr. Grayson's long speech of praise,
in which he spoke touchingly of the beauty of a nature which loved the
wild dumb creatures of the woods and sought to protect them from harm;
of the cool courage and splendid will power that had sent her out on the
shaking branch when her very heart was in her mouth from fear; of the
modesty which had kept her silent about the glorious act after she
returned to camp. When he took both her hands in his and looked into her
face with an expression of admiring regard in his fine, true eyes, she
all but told the truth of the matter then and there; but cowardice held
her silent and the moment passed.

"Let's have a canoe procession in her honor!" called Miss Judy, and
there was a rush for the dock.

Agony was borne down in triumph upon the shoulders of Miss Judy and
Tiny, with all the camp marching after, and was set down in the barge of
honor, the first canoe behind the towing launch, while all the Alley
drew straws for the privilege of riding with her. Still cheering Agony
enthusiastically the procession started down the river in a wild,
hilarious ride, and Agony thrilled with the joy of being the center of
attraction.

"I have arrived at last," she whispered triumphantly to herself as she
went to bed that night, and lay awake a long time in the darkness,
thinking of the cheers that had rocked the Craft House and of the
flattering attention with which Miss Amesbury had regarded her all
evening.