CHAPTER VII




THE BUSINESS OF BEING A HEROINE

Agony awoke the next morning to find herself famous beyond her fondest
dreams. Before she was dressed she saw two of the younger girls peeping
into the tent for a glimpse of her; when she stood in line for flag
raising she was conscious of eyes turned toward her from all directions
while girls who had never noticed her before stopped to say good morning
effusively, and seemed inclined to linger in her company; and at
breakfast each table in turn sang a cheer for her. Jo Severance, who was
one of the acknowledged camp leaders, and whose friendships were not
lightly bestowed, ostensibly stopped and waited for Agony to catch up
with her on the way over to Morning Sing and walked into Mateka with her
arm around Agony's waist.

"Will you be my sleeping partner for the first overnight trip that we
take?" she asked cordially.

"Certainly," Agony replied a little breathlessly, already well enough
versed in camp customs to realize the extent of the tribute that was
being paid her.

At Camp Keewaydin a girl never asked anyone but her dearest friend to be
her sleeping partner on an overnight trip, to creep into her poncho
sleeping bag with her and share the intimate experience of a night on
the ground, heads together on the same pillow, warm bodies touching each
other in the crowded nest inside the blankets. And Jo Severance had
chosen her to take the place of Mary Sylvester, Jo's own adored Mary,
who was to have been Jo's partner on all occasions!

Before Morning Sing was over Agony had received a dozen pressing
invitations to share beds on that first camping trip, and the date of
the trip was not even announced yet!

And to all this fuss and favor Agony responded like a prism placed in
the sunlight. She sparkled, she glowed, she radiated, she brought to the
surface with a rush all the wit and charm and talent that lay in her
being. She beamed upon everyone right and left; she threw herself with
ardor and enthusiasm into every plan that was suggested; she had a dozen
brilliant ideas in as many minutes; she seemed absolutely inspired. Her
deep voice came out so strongly that she was able to carry the alto in
the singing against the whole camp; she improvised delightful harmonies
that put a thrill into the commonest tune. She got up of her own accord
and performed the gestures to "The Lone Fish Ball" better even than
Mary Sylvester had done them, and on the spur of the moment she worked
out another set to accompany "The Bulldog and the Bullfrog" that brought
down the house. It took only the stimulating influence of the limelight
to bring out and intensify every talent she had ever possessed. It
worked upon her like a drug, quickening her faculties, spurring her on
to one brilliant performance after the other, while the camp looked upon
her in wonder as one gifted by the gods.

The same exalted mood possessed her during swimming hour, and she passed
the test for Sharks with flying colors. Immediately afterward she
completed the canoe test and joined that envied class who were allowed
to take out a canoe on their own responsibility.

A dozen new admirers flocked around her as she walked back to
Gitchee-Gummee at the close of the Swimming hour, all begging to be
allowed to sew up the tear in her bathing suit, or offering to lend her
the prettiest of their bathing caps. What touched Agony most, however,
was the pride which the Winnebagos took in her exploit.

"We knew you would do something splendid sometime and bring honor to
us," they told her exultingly, with shining faces.

"I'm going to write Nyoda about it this minute," said Migwan, after she
had finished her words of praise. "What's the mater, Agony, have you a
headache again?" she finished.

"No," replied Agony in a tone of forced carelessness.

"I thought maybe you had," continued Migwan solicitously. "Your forehead
was all puckered up."

"The light is so bright on the river," murmured Agony, and walked
thoughtfully away.

Days passed in pleasant succession; Mary Sylvester's name gradually
ceased to be heard on all sides from her mourning cronies, who at first
accompanied every camp activity with a plaintive chorus of, "Remember
the way Mary used to do this," or "Oh, I wish Mary were here to enjoy
this," or "Mary had planned to do this the first chance she got," and so
on. Life in camp was so packed full of enjoyment for those who remained
behind that it was impossible to go on missing the departed one
indefinitely.

The first camping trip was a thing of the past. It had been a
twenty-mile hike along the river to a curious group of rocks known as
"Hercules' Library," from the resemblance which the granite blocks bore
to shelves of books. Here, among these fantastic formations, the camp
had spread its blankets and literally snored, if not actually upon, at
least at the base of, the flint.

When bedtime came Katherine had found herself without a sleeping
partner, for she had forgotten to ask someone herself, and it just
happened that no one had asked her. She was philosophically trying to
make her bed up for a single, by doubling the poncho over lengthwise
into a cocoon effect, when she heard a sniffle coming out of the bushes
beside her. Investigating, she found Carmen Chadwick sitting
disconsolately upon a very much wrinkled poncho, her chin in her hands,
the picture of woe.

"What's the matter, can't you make your bed?" asked Katherine,
remembering Carmen's helplessness in that line upon a former occasion.

"I haven't any partner!" answered Carmen, with another sniffle. "I had
one, but she's run away from me."

"Who was it?" asked Katherine.

"Jane Pratt," replied Carmen. "I asked her a long time ago if I might
sleep with her on the first trip, and she said, certainly I might, and
she would bring along enough blankets for the two of us, and I wouldn't
need to bother bringing any. So I didn't bring any blankets; but when I
asked her just now where we were going to sleep, she said she hadn't the
faintest notion where _I_ was going to sleep, but _she_ was going to
sleep alone in the woods, away from the rest of us. She laughed at me,
and said she never intended to bring along enough blankets for the two
of us, and that I should have known better than to believe her. What
shall I do?" she wailed, beginning to weep in earnest.

Katherine gave vent to an exclamation that sent a nearby chipmunk
scampering away in a panic. She looked around for Miss Judy, but Miss
Judy was deep in the woods with the other councilors getting up a stunt
to entertain the girls after supper. "Where's Jane Pratt?" asked
Katherine.

"I don't know," sniffled Carmen.

"Didn't you bring any blankets at all?"

"No."

"Carmen, didn't it ever occur to you that Jane was making fun of you
when she said she would bring blankets for two? Nobody ever does that,
you know, they'd make too heavy a load to carry."

Carmen shook her head, and gulped afresh.

"No, I never thought of that. I wanted a sleeping partner so badly, and
everyone I asked was already engaged, and when she said yes I was _so_
happy."

"Of all the mean, contemptible tricks to play on a poor little creature
like that!" Katherine exclaimed aloud.

"What's the matter?" asked Agony, appearing beside her.

Katherine told her.

Agony's eyes flashed. "I'm going to find Jane Pratt," she said in the
calm tone which always indicated smouldering anger, "and make her share
her blankets with Carmen."

Jane, who, with the practised eye of the old camper, had selected a
smooth bit of ground thickly covered with pine needles and sloping
gently upward toward the end for her head, and had arranged her two
double blankets and her extra large sized poncho into an extremely
comfortable bed for one, looked up from her labors to find Agony
standing before her with flushed face and blazing eyes.

"Jane Pratt," Agony began without preliminary, "did you promise to sleep
with Carmen Chadwick, and lead her to think she did not need to bring
any blankets along on this trip?"

Jane returned Agony's gaze coolly, and gave a slight, disagreeable
laugh. "Carmen's the biggest goose in camp," she said scornfully.
"Anybody'd know I didn't mean--"

"_Carmen_ didn't know you didn't mean it," Agony interrupted. "She
thought you were sincere, and believed you, and now she's dreadfully
hurt about it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, hurting a poor
little girl's feelings like that."

"If anybody's green enough to come on an overnight trip without any
blankets and actually think someone else is going to bring them for
her--"

"Well, as it happens, Carmen _was_ green enough, and that's just the
point. She's never been away from home and because she's so desperately
homesick she's having a hard time making friends. If one person treats
her like this it'll be hard for her ever to believe what people tell
her and it'll be harder for her to get acquainted than ever."

Jane shrugged her shoulders. "What she believes or doesn't believe
doesn't concern me."

"Why, Jane Pratt!"

Jane smiled amusedly at Agony's reproachful exclamation. "My dear," she
said patronizingly, "I never sleep with anyone. There's no one I like
well enough. I thought everyone in camp knew that."

"Then why did you tell Carmen you would sleep with her?"

"Because she's such a goose it was no end of fun taking her in."

"Then you deliberately deceived her?" asked Agony witheringly.

"Well, and what if I did?" retorted Jane.

"You have absolutely no sense of honor," Agony remarked contemptuously.
"Deceiving people is just as bad as lying, or cheating."

Stung by Agony's tone, Jane flushed a little. "Well, what do you expect
me to do about it?" she demanded. "What business is it of yours,
anyway?"

"You're going to let Carmen take one of your blankets," replied Agony.

"I'll do no such thing," returned Jane flatly. "It's going to be cold
here tonight and I'll need them both."

"And what about Carmen?"

"Bother Carmen! If she's such a goose to think that I meant what I said
she deserves to be cold."

"Why, Jane Pratt!"

"Why don't you share your own blankets with her, if you're so concerned
about her?"

"I'm perfectly willing to, and so are the rest of the girls, but we're
giving you the _opportunity_ to do it, to help right the mistake."

"I suppose you've told all the girls in camp about it and will run and
tell Mrs. Grayson to come and make me give up my blankets."

"I'll do no such thing. If you aren't kind hearted enough yourself to
want to make Carmen feel better it wouldn't mend matters any to have
Mrs. Grayson make you do it. But I shall certainly let the girls know
about it. I think they ought to know what an amiable disposition you
have. I don't think you'll be bothered with any more overtures of
friendship."

Jane yawned. "For goodness' sake, are you going to preach all night?
That voice of yours sets my nerves on edge. Take a blanket and present
it to Carmen with my love--and let me alone." She stripped the top
blanket from her bed and threw it at Agony's feet; then walked off,
calling over her shoulder as she went, "Good bye, Miss Champion of
simple camp infants. Most courageous, most honorable!"

She did not see the sudden spasm that contorted Agony's face at the
word "honorable." It suddenly came over Agony that she had no right to
be calling other people cheats and liars and taking them to task about
their sense of honor, she, who was enjoying honors that did not belong
to her. The light of victory faded from her eyes; the angry flush died
away on her cheek. Very quietly she stole back to Carmen and held the
blanket out to her.

"Jane's sorry she can't sleep with you, because she never sleeps well
and is apt to disturb people, but she's willing to let you take one of
her blankets," she said gently.

"Oh, thank you!" said Carmen, much comforted. "I'm going to sleep with
Katherine. With this blanket there'll be enough bedding to make a
double. I'm glad I'm not going to sleep with Jane," she confided to
Katherine. "I'm afraid of her. I would lots rather have had you for my
partner from the beginning, but I was afraid to ask you because I was
sure you were promised to somebody else."

"Motto," said Katherine, laughing. "Faint heart never won lanky lady.
Don't ever hesitate to ask me anything again. Come on, let's get this
bed made up in a hurry. I see the councilors coming back. That means
their show is going to commence."

Of course, it was not long before Agony's little passage of arms with
Jane Pratt in behalf of timid little Carmen was known all over camp, and
Agony went up another point in popular favor as Jane Pratt went down.
The councilors heard about it, too, for whatever Bengal Virden knew was
promptly confided to Pom-pom. Miss Judy told it to Dr. Grayson, and he
nodded his head approvingly.

"It's no more than you would expect from the girl who rescued that
robin," he said warmly. "The champion of all weaker creatures.
Diplomatic, too. Tried to save Carmen's feelings in the matter by not
telling her the exact spirit in which Jane gave up the blanket. A good
leader; another Mary Sylvester."

Then, turning to Mrs. Grayson, he asked plaintively: "Mother, _why_ do
we have to be afflicted with Jane Pratt year after year? She's been a
thorn in our flesh for the past three summers."

"I have told you before," replied Mrs. Grayson resignedly, "that I only
accept her because she is the daughter of my old friend Anne Dudley. I
cannot offend Mrs. Pratt because I am under various obligations to her,
so for the sake of her mother we must continue to be afflicted with Jane
Pratt."

Dr. Grayson heaved a long sigh, and muttered something about "the fell
clutch of circumstance."

"We seem rather plentifully saddled with 'obligations,'" he remarked a
moment later.

"Meaning?" inquired Mrs. Grayson.

"Claudia Peckham," rejoined the Doctor. "Sweet Claudia Peckham: How she
used to scrap with my little brothers when she came to visit us! She
had a disposition like the bubonic plague when she was little, and by
all the signs she doesn't seem to have mellowed any with age."

"Doctor!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson reprovingly.

"Sad, but true," continued the Doctor, his eyes twinkling reminiscently.
"When she came to visit us the cat used to hide her kittens under the
porch, and the whole household went into a regular state of siege. By
the way, how is she getting on? I've lived in fear of the explosion
every minute. I never thought she'd last this long. Who has she in the
tent with her?"

"That brown haired madonna you think is so sweet, and the pretty, golden
haired girl who is her intimate friend," replied Mrs. Grayson. "Those
two, and--Bengal Virden."

The Doctor gave vent to a long whistle. "Bengal Virden in the same tent
with Claudia Peckham? And the tent is still standing?"

"Bengal doesn't sleep in the tent," admitted Mrs. Grayson. "She has
moved underneath it, into a couch hammock. She thinks I don't know it,
but under the circumstances I shall not interfere. We have to keep
Cousin Claudia _somewhere_, and as long as they'll put up with her in
Ponemah I don't care how they manage it. She _would_ be a tent
councilor."

"How do the other two get along with her?" asked the Doctor, "the two
that have not moved underneath, as yet?"

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Grayson in a frankly puzzled tone. "They
must be angels unaware, that's all I can say."




CHAPTER VIII


THE SHOE BEGINS TO PINCH

"Tramp, tramp, tramp, the bugs are marching,
Up and down the tents they go,
Some are brown and some are black,
But of each there is no lack,
And the Daddy-long-legs they go marching too!"

So sang Sahwah as she tidied up her tent after Morning Sing. It was war
on bugs and spiders this morning; war to the knife, or rather, to the
broom. Usually there was no time between Morning Sing and tent
inspection to do more than give the place a swift tidying up; to sweep
the floor and straighten up the beds and set the table in order. Bugs
and spiders did not count against one in tent inspection, being looked
upon as circumstances over which one had no control; hence no one ever
bothered about them. But that morning Sahwah, lying awake waiting for
the rising bugle to blow, saw a round-bellied, jolly-looking little bug
crawling leisurely along the floor, dragging a tiny seed of grain with
him, and looking for all the world like the father of a family bringing
a loaf of bread home for breakfast. As she watched it traveling along a
crack in the board floor, a very large, fierce-looking bug appeared on
the scene, fell upon the smaller one, killed and half devoured it, and
then made off triumphantly with the seed the other had been carrying.

"No you don't!" shouted Sahwah aloud, waking Agony out of a sound sleep.

"What's the matter?" yawned Agony.

Sahwah laughed a little foolishly. "It was nothing; only a bug," she
explained. "I'm sorry I wakened you, Agony. You see, I was watching a
cute little bug carrying a seed across the floor, and a bigger bug came
along and took it away from him. I won't stand for anything like that
here in Gitchee-Gummee. We all play fair here, and nobody takes any
plums that belong to someone else."

She rose in her wrath, reached for her shoe, and made short work of the
unethical despoiler.

Agony made no comment. The words, _we all play fair here, and nobody
takes any plums that belong to someone else_, pierced her bosom like
barbed arrows. She lay so still that Sahwah thought she had dropped off
to sleep again, and crept quietly back to bed so as not to disturb her a
second time. Like the tiger, however, who, once having tasted blood, is
consumed with the lust of killing, Sahwah, having squashed one bug,
itched to do the same with all the others in the tent, and when
tidying-up time came there began a ruthless campaign of extermination.

Agony, having made her bed and swept out underneath it, departed
abruptly from the scene. Somehow the sight of bugs being killed was
upsetting to her just now. She wandered down toward the river, listening
pensively to the sweet piping notes of Noel Sanderson's whistle, coming
from somewhere along the shore; then she turned and walked toward
Mateka, planning to put in some time working on the design for her
paddle before Craft Hour began and the place became filled to
overflowing with other designers, all wanting the design books and the
rulers and compasses at once.

As she passed under the balcony which was Miss Amesbury's sanctum, a
cordial hail floated down from above. "Good morning, Agony, whither
bound so early, and what means that portentous frown?"

Agony looked up to see Miss Amesbury, wreathed in smiles, peering down
over the rustic railing at her. Agony flushed with pleasure at the
cordiality of the tone, and the use of her nickname. It was only the
girls for which she had a special liking that Miss Amesbury ever
addressed by a nickname, no matter how universally in use that nickname
might be with the rest of the camp. Agony's blood tingled with a sense
of triumph; her eyes sparkled and her face took on that look of being
lighted up from within that characterized her in moments of great
animation.

"I was coming down to Mateka to put in some extra work on the design for
my paddle," she replied, in her rich, vibrating voice, "and I was
frowning because I was a little puzzled how I was going to work it out."

"Industrious child!" replied Miss Amesbury. "Come up and visit me and
I'll show you some good designs for paddles."

The next half hour was so filled with delight for Agony that she did not
know whether she was sleeping or waking. Sitting opposite her adored
Miss Amesbury on a rustic bench covered with a bright Indian blanket and
listening to the fascinating conversation of this much traveled, older
woman, the voice of conscience grew fainter and nearly ceased tormenting
Agony altogether, and she gave herself up wholly to the enjoyment of the
moment. In answer to Miss Amesbury's questioning, she told of her home
and school life; her great admiration for Edwin Langham; and about the
Winnebagos and their good times; and Miss Amesbury laughed heartily at
her tales and in turn related her own school-girl pranks and enthusiasm
in a flattering confidential way.

Agony rushed up to the Winnebagos after Craft Hour, radiant with pride
and happiness. "Miss Amesbury invited me up to her balcony," she
announced, trying hard to speak casually, "and she lent me one of her
own books to read, and she helped me work out the design for my paddle.
She's the most wonderful woman I've ever met. She wants me to come again
often, she says, and she invited me to go walking with her in the woods
this afternoon to get some balsam."

"O Agony, how splendid!" cried Migwan, with a hint of wistfulness in her
voice. Migwan did not envy Agony her sudden popularity with the campers
one bit; that was her just due after the splendid deed she had
performed; but where Miss Amesbury was concerned Migwan could not help
feeling a few pangs of jealousy. She admired Miss Amesbury with all the
passion that was in her, looking up to her as one of the nameless,
insignificant stars of heaven might look up to the Evening Star; she
prayed that Miss Amesbury might single her out for intimate friendship
such as was enjoyed by Mary Sylvester and some of the other older girls.
Migwan never breathed this desire to anyone, but if Miss Amesbury had
only known it, a certain pair of soft brown eyes rested eagerly upon her
all through Morning Sing, as she sat at the piano playing hymns and
choruses, even as they were fixed upon her during meals and other
assemblies. And now the thing that Migwan coveted so much had come to
Agony, and Agony basked in the light of Miss Amesbury's twinkling smile
and enjoyed all the privileges of friendship which Migwan would have
given her right hand to possess. But, being Migwan, she bravely brushed
aside her momentary feeling of envy, told herself sternly that if she
was worth it Miss Amesbury would notice her sooner or later, and
cheerfully lent Agony her best pencil to transfer the new paddle design
with.

"Supper on the water tonight!" announced Miss Judy, going the rounds
late in the afternoon. "Everybody go down on the dock when the supper
bugle blows, instead of coming into the dining room."

There was a mad rush for canoe partners, and a hasty gathering together
of guitars and mandolins, which would certainly be in demand for the
evening sing-out which would follow supper. Agony, being in an exalted
mood, had an inspiration, which she confided to Gladys in a whisper, and
Gladys, nodding, moved off in the direction of the Bungalow and paid a
visit to her trunk up in the loft, after which she and Agony disappeared
into the woods.

The river was bathed in living fire from the rays of the setting sun
when the little fleet of boats pushed out from the shore and began
circling around the floating dock where Miss Judy and Tiny Armstrong,
with the help of three or four other councilors, were passing out plates
of salad, sandwiches and cups of milk. Having received their supplies,
the canoes backed away and went moving up or down the river as the
paddlers desired, sometimes two or three canoes close together,
sometimes one alone, but all, whether alone or in groups, filling the
occupants of the launch with desperate envy. A dozen or more girls these
were, still in the Minnow class, still denied the privilege of going out
in a canoe because they had not yet passed the swimming test.

Oh-Pshaw, alas, was still one of them. She looked wistfully at Agony, a
Shark, in charge of a canoe with Hinpoha and Gladys and Jo Severance as
companions, gliding alongside of Sahwah and Undine Cirelle on the one
side and Katherine and Jean Lawrence on the other. She heard their
voices floating across the water as they laughingly called to each other
and sang snatches of songs aimed at Miss Judy and Tiny Armstrong on the
floating dock; heard Tiny Armstrong remark to Miss Judy, "There's the
best group of canoeists we've ever had in camp. Won't they make a
showing on Regatta Day, though!"

Oh-Pshaw longed with all her heart on floating supper nights to belong
to that illustrious company and go gliding up and down the river like a
swan instead of chugging around in the launch, sitting cramped up to
make room for the supper supplies that covered the floor on the trip
out, and baskets of used forks and spoons and cups on the trip back. It
was not a brilliant company that went in the launch. Jacob, Dr.
Grayson's helper about camp, ran the engine. Being desperately shy, he
attended strictly to business, and never so much as glanced at the girls
packed in behind him. Half a dozen of the younger camp girls, who never
did anything but whisper together, carve stones for their favorite
councilors, and giggle continually; three or four of the older girls who
sat silent as clams for the most part, and never betrayed any particular
enthusiasm, no matter what went on; Carmen Chadwick, who clung to
Oh-Pshaw and squeaked with alarm every time the launch changed her
course; and Miss Peckham, who from her seat in the stern kept shouting
nervous admonitions at the unheeding Jacob; these constituted the
company who were doomed to travel together on all excursions.

Oh-Pshaw labored heroically to infuse a spark of life into the company;
she wrote a really clever little song about "the Exclusive Crew of the
Irish Stew," but she could not induce the exclusive crew to sing it, so
her first poetic effort was love's labor lost. So she looked enviously
upon the canoes and resolved more firmly than ever to overcome her fear
of the water and learn to swim, and thus have done with the launch and
its uninspiring company for all time.

Migwan's eyes, as usual, went roving in search of Miss Amesbury, but
tonight, to her sorrow, they did not find her anywhere in the canoes.

"Where is Miss Amesbury?" she asked of Miss Judy, as her canoe came up
alongside of the "lunch counter."

"She didn't come out with us tonight," replied Miss Judy, tipping the
milk can far over to pour out the last drop. "She wanted to do some
writing, she said."

Migwan sighed quietly and gave herself over to being agreeable to her
canoe mates, but the occasion had lost its savor for her.

Supper finished, the canoes began to drift westward toward the setting
sun, following the broad streak of light that lay like a magic highway
upon the water, while guitars and mandolins began to tinkle, and from
all around clear girlish voices, blended together in exquisite harmony,
took up song after song.

"Oh, I could float along like this and sing forever!" breathed Hinpoha,
picking out soft chords on her guitar, and looking dreamily at the
evening star glowing like a jewelled lamp in the western sky.

"So could I," replied Migwan, leaning back in the canoe with her hands
clasped behind her head, and letting the light breeze ruffle the soft
tendrils of hair around her temples. "It is going to be full moon
tonight," she added. "See, there it is, rising above the treetops. How
big and bright it is! Can it be possible that it is only a mass of dead
chalk and not a ball of burnished silver? Gladys will enjoy that moon,
she always loves it so when it is so big and round and bright. By the
way, where _is_ Gladys? I saw her in a canoe not long ago, but I don't
see her anywhere now."

"I don't know where she is," replied Hinpoha, glancing idly around at
the various craft and then letting her eyes rest upon the moon again.

The little fleet had rounded an island and turned back upstream, now
traveling in the silver moon-path, now gliding through velvety black
shadows, and was approaching a long, low ledge of rock that jutted out
into the water just beyond the big bend in the river. A sudden
exclamation of "Ah-h!" drew everybody's attention to the rock, and there
a wondrous spectacle presented itself--a white robed figure dancing in
the moonlight as lighty as a bit of seafoam, her filmy draperies
fluttering in the wind, her long yellow hair twined with lillies.

"Who is it?" several voices cried in wonder, and the paddlers stopped
spellbound with their paddles poised in air.

"Gladys!" exclaimed Migwan. "I thought she was planning a surprise, she
and Agony were whispering together this afternoon. Isn't she wonderful,
though!" Migwan's voice rang with pride in her beloved friend's
accomplishment. "Too bad Miss Amesbury isn't here to see it."

The dancer on the rock dipped and swayed and whirled in a mad measure,
finally disappearing into the shadow of a towering cliff, from whence
she emerged a few moments later, once more in the canoe with Agony, and
changed back from a water nymph into a Camp Keewaydin girl in middy and
bloomers.

"It was Agony's idea," she explained simply, in response to the storm of
applause that greeted her reappearance among the girls. "She thought of
it this afternoon when the word went around that we were going to have
supper on the water."

Then Agony came in for her share of the applause also, until the woods
echoed to the sound of cheering.

"Too bad Miss Amesbury had to miss it." Thus Agony echoed Migwan's
earlier expression of regret as she walked down the Alley arm in arm
with Migwan and Hinpoha after the first bugle. "She's been working up
there on her balcony all evening, and didn't hear a bit of the singing.
We were too far up the river."

"Couldn't we sing a bit for her?" suggested Migwan. "Serenade her, I
mean; just a few of us who are used to singing together?"

"Good idea," replied Agony enthusiastically. "Get all the Winnebagos
together and let's sing her some of our own songs, the ones we've
practicsed so much together at home. You bring your mandolin, Migs, and
tell Hinpoha to bring her guitar. Hurry, we'll have to do it fast to get
back for lights out."

Miss Amesbury, wearily finishing her evening's work, was suddenly
greeted by a burst of song from beneath her balcony; a surpassing deep,
rich alto, beautifully blended with a number of clear, pure sopranos,
accompanied by mandolin and guitar. It was a song she had not heard in
years, one which held a beautiful, tender association for her:

"I would that my love could silently
Flow in a single word--"

A mist came over her eyes as she listened, and the gates of memory swung
back on their golden hinges, revealing another scene, when she had
listened to that song sung by a voice now long since hushed. She put her
hand over her eyes as if in pain, then dropped it slowly into her lap
and sat leaning back in her chair listening with hungry ears to the
familiar strains. When the last note had echoed itself quite away she
leaned over the balcony and called down softly, "Thanks, many thanks,
girls. You do not know what a treat you have given me. Who are you? I
know one of you must be Agony, I recognize her alto, but who are the
rest of you? The Winnebagos? I might have guessed it. You are dear girls
to think of me up here by myself and to put yourselves out to give me
pleasure. Come and visit me in the daytime, every one of you. There goes
the last bugle. Goodnight, girls. Thank you a thousand times!"

The Winnebagos scurried off toward the Alley, in high spirits at the
success of their little plan. Migwan actually trembled with joy. At last
she had been invited up on Miss Amesbury's fascinating little balcony.
True, the invitation had been a general one to all the Winnebagos, but
nevertheless, it was a beginning.

"Miss Amesbury must have been very tired tonight," she confided to
Hinpoha. "Her voice actually shook when she thanked us for singing."

"I noticed it, too," replied Hinpoha, beginning to pull her middy off
over her head as she walked along.

When Agony reached the door of Gitchee-Gummee she remembered that she
had left her camp hat lying in the path below Mateka, where they had
stood to serenade Miss Amesbury, and fearing that the wind, which was
increasing in velocity, might blow it into the river before morning, she
hastened back to rescue it. She moved quietly, for it was after lights
out and she did not wish to disturb the camp. Miss Amesbury's lamp was
extinguished and her balcony was shrouded in darkness by the shadow of
the tall pine which grew against it.

"She must be very tired," thought Agony, remembering Migwan's words,
"and is already in bed."

Agony felt carefully over the shadowy ground for her hat, found it and
started back up the path. But the beauty of the moonlight on the river
tempted her to loiter and dream along the bluff before returning to her
tent. Enchanted by the magic scene beneath her, she stood still and
gazed for many minutes at the gleaming river of water which seemed to
her like pure molten silver.

As she stood gazing, half lost in dreams, she saw a canoe shoot out from
the opposite shore some distance up the river and come toward Keewaydin,
keeping in the shadows along the shore. Just before it reached camp it
drew in and discharged a passenger, which Agony could see was a girl.
Then the canoe put off again, and as it crossed a moonlit place Agony
saw that it was painted bright red, the color of the canoes belonging to
the Boy's Camp located about a half mile down the river. Agony realized
what the presence of that canoe meant. One of the girls of Keewaydin had
been out canoeing on the sly with some boy from Camp Alamont--a thing
forbidden in the Keewaydin code--and was being brought back in this
surreptitious manner. Who could the girl be? Agony grimaced with
disgust. She waited quietly there in the path where the girl, whoever