remarked Miss Amesbury. "Is that the only kind of women you admire?"
"It seems so," replied Migwan, laughing. "We're a bloodthirsty lot. Go
on, Katherine."

Katherine dropped the log she was carrying upon the fire and kept her
eye upon it as she spoke. "I see a brilliant assemblage, gathered in the
palace of the Empress of Austria to hear a wonderful boy musician play
on the piano. As the young lad, who is none other than the great Mozart,
enters the room, he first approaches the Empress to make his bow to her.
The polished floor is extremely slippery, and he slips and falls flat.
The courtiers, who consider him very clumsy, do nothing but laugh at
him, but the young daughter of the Empress runs forward, helps him to
his feet and comforts him with soothing words."

"I always did think that was the most charming anecdote ever related
about Marie Antoinete," observed Migwan. "She must have been a very
sweet and lovable young girl; it doesn't seem possible that she grew up
to be the kind of woman she did."

"Another one who lost her head!" remarked Miss Amesbury, laughing.
"Aren't there going to be any who live to grow old? Let's see who
Hinpoha's favorite heroine is."

Hinpoha moved back a foot or so from the fire, which had blazed up to an
uncomfortable heat at the addition of Katherine's log. "I see a Puritan
maiden, seated at a spinning wheel," she commenced. "The door opens and
a young man comes in. He apparently has something on his mind, and
stands around first on one foot and then on the other, until the girl
asks him what seems to be the trouble, whereupon he gravely informs her
that a friend of his, a most worthy man indeed, who can write, and
fight, and--ah, do several more things all at once, wants her for his
wife. Then the girl smiles demurely at him, and says coyly--"

"Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" shouted the other six girls,
with one voice.

"You don't need to ask Hinpoha who her favorite heroine is," said Migwan
laughing. "Ever since I've known her she's read the story of Priscilla
and John Alden at least once a week."

"Well, you must admit that she _was_ pretty clever," said Hinpoha,
blushing a little at the exposure of her fondness for love stories. "And
sensible, too. She wasn't afraid of speaking up and helping her bashful
lover along a little bit, instead of meekly accepting Standish's offer
and then spending the rest of her life sighing because John Alden hadn't
asked her."

"That's right," chimed in Sahwah. "I admire a girl with spirit. If Lady
Jane Gray had had a little more spirit she wouldn't have lost her head.
I'll warrant Priscilla Mullins would have found a way out of it if she
had been in the same scrape as Lady Jane. Now, your turn, Migwan."

"I see a girl living in a bleak house on the edge of a wild, lonely
moor," began Migwan. "All winter long the storms howl around the house
like angry spirits of the air. To amuse themselves in these long winter
evenings this girl and her sisters make up stories about the people that
live on the moors and tell them to each other around the fire, or after
they have crept into bed, and lie shivering under the blankets in the
icy cold room. The stories that my girl made up were so fascinating that
the others forgot the cold and the raw winds whistling about the house
and listened spellbound until she had finished."

"I know who that is," said Gladys, when Migwan paused. "Mig is forever
raving about Charlotte Bronte."

"The more I think about her the more wonderful she seems," said Migwan
warmly. "How a girl brought up in such a dead, cheerless place as
Haworth Churchyard, and knowing nothing at all about the world of
people, could have written such a book as _Jane Eyre_, seems a miracle.
She was a genius," she finished with an envious sigh.

Miss Amesbury looked keenly at Migwan. "I think," she observed shrewdly,
"that you like to write also. Is it not so?"

Migwan blushed furiously and sat silent. To have this successful, widely
known writer know her heart's ambition filled her with an agony of
embarrassment.

"Migwan does write, wonderful things," said Hinpoha loyally. "She's had
things printed in papers and in the college magazine." Then she told
about the Indian legend that had caused such a stir in college,
whereupon Miss Amesbury laughed heartily, and patted Migwan on the head,
and said she would very much like to see some of the things she had
written. Migwan, thrilled and happy, but still very much embarrassed,
shyly promised that she would let her see some of her work, and in the
middle of her speech a potato blew up with a bang, showering them all
with mealy fragments and hot ashes, and sending them flying away from
the fire with startled shrieks.

Since the potatoes were so very evidently done, the rest of the meal was
hurriedly prepared, and eaten with keen appetites. During the clearing
away process somebody discovered that the rain had stopped falling, a
fact which they had all been too busy to notice before, and that the
mist was being rapidly blown away by a strong northwest wind. When they
woke in the morning, after sleeping in the cave around the fire, the sun
was shining brightly into the entrance and the birds outside were
singing joyously of a fair day to come.

Overflowing with energy the late cave dwellers raced through the sweet
smelling woods, indescribably fresh and fragrant after the cleansing,
purifying rain, and launched the canoes upon a river Sparkling like a
sheet of diamonds in the clear morning sunlight. How wonderfully new and
bright the rain-washed earth looked everywhere, and how exhilarating the
fresh rushing wind was to their senses, after the smoky, misty
atmosphere of the cave!

Exulting in their strength the Winnebagos bent low over their paddles,
and the canoes leaped forward like hounds set free from the leash, and
went racing along with the current, shooting past islands, whirling
around bends, whisking through tiny rapids, wildly, deliriously,
rejoicing in the thrill of the morning and the call of a world running
over with joy. Soon they came to the place where they had first planned
to camp, and there were the primroses, a-riot with bloom, nodding them a
friendly greeting.

"Aren't you glad we didn't stay here?" said Sahwah. "We'd have been
soaked if we did, because we probably wouldn't have found the cave. The
primroses saved the day for us by growing where we wanted to lay our
beds."

They sang a cheer to the primroses and swept on until they came to the
place in the woods where the balsam grew. Dusk was falling when, with
canoes piled high with the fragrant boughs, they rounded the great bend
above Keewaydin and a few minutes later ran in alongside the Camp
Keewaydin dock.

"I feel as though I had been gone for weeks," said Migwan, as they
climbed out of the canoes.

"So do I," said Sahwah, dancing up and down on the dock to take the
stiffness out of her muscles. "Doesn't it look civilized, though, after
what we've just experienced? I wish," she continued longingly, "that I
could live in the wilds all the time."

"I don't," replied Migwan, patting the diving tower as if it were an old
friend. "Camp is plenty wild enough for me."




CHAPTER X


TOPSY-TURVY DAY

"Why, where _is_ camp?" asked Sahwah in perplexity, noticing that the
whole place was dark and still. It was half past six, the usual
after-supper frolic hour, when camp was wont to ring to the echo with
fun and merriment of all kinds. Now no sound came from Mateka, nor from
the bungalow, nor from any of the tents, no sound and no movement.
Before their astonished eyes the camp lay like an enchanted city,
changed in their absence from a place of racket and bustle and
resounding laughter, to a silent ghost of its former lively self.

"What's happened?" exclaimed the Winnebagos to each other. "Is everybody
gone on a trip?"

Mystified, they climbed up the hill, and at the top they found Miss Judy
going from tent to tent with her flashlight, as if making the nightly
rounds after lights out.

"O Miss Judy," they called to her, "what's happened?"

"Shh-h-h!" replied Miss Judy, holding up her hand for silence and
coming toward them. "Everybody's in bed," she whispered when she was
near enough for them to hear her."

"In bed!" exclaimed the Winnebagos in astonishment. "At half past six in
the evening? What for?"

"It's Topsy-Turvy Day," replied Miss Judy, laughing at their amazed
faces. "We're turning everything upside down tonight. Hurry and get into
bed. The rising bugle will blow in half an hour."

Giggling with amusement the Winnebagos sped to their tents, unrolled
their ponchos, made up their beds in a hurry, undressed quickly and
popped into bed. Not long afterward they heard the dipping of paddles
and the monotonous "one, two, one two," of the boatswain as the crew of
the Turtle started out for practice. The Turtle's regular practice hour
was the half hour before rising bugle in the morning.

Tired with her long paddle that day Hinpoha fell asleep as soon as she
touched the pillow, and was much startled to hear the loud blast of a
bugle in the midst of a delightful dream. "What's the matter?" she asked
sleepily, sitting up and looking around her in bewilderment. "What are
they blowing the bugle in the middle of the night for?"

"They aren't blowing the bugle in the middle of the night," said Sahwah
with a shriek of laughter at Hinpoha's puzzled face. "This is
Topsy-Turvy Day, don't you remember? We're going to have our regular
day's program at night time. It's ten minutes to seven, and that's the
bugle for morning dip. Are you coming?"

Sahwah was already inside her bathing suit, and Agony had hers half on.
Hinpoha replied with an unintelligible sound, one-eighth grunt and
seven-eights yawn, and rising tipsily from her bed she looked around for
her bathing suit with eyes still half sealed by sleep. Sahwah helped her
into the suit and seizing her hand led her down to the water, where half
the camp, shaking with convulsive merriment at the absurdity of the
thing, were scrupulously taking their "morning dip," with toothbrush
drill and all the other regular morning ablutions.

The rising bugle blew while they were still at it and they sped back to
the tents to get dressed, making three times as much racket about this
process as they ever did in the morning. Most of the tents had no
lights, because ordinarily no one needed a light to undress by and so
the lanterns which had been given out at the beginning of the season
were scattered everywhere about camp as especial need for them had
arisen upon various occasions. But getting dressed in the dark is harder
than getting undressed, and most of the tents were in an uproar.

"I can only find one stocking," wailed Oh-Pshaw, after vainly feeling
around for several minutes. "Where's my flashlight, Katherine?"

"I'm sorry, but I just dropped it into the water jar," replied
Katherine, "and it won't work any more." Katherine herself was
hopelessly involved in her bloomers, having put both feet through the
same leg, and was lying flat on the floor trying to extricate herself.

"Can I go with only one stocking on?" Oh-Pshaw persisted plaintively. "I
haven't another pair here in the tent."

"_I_ can't find my middy," Jean Lawrence was lamenting, paying no heed
to Oh-Pshaw's troubles in regard to hosiery.

Tiny Armstrong, reaching down behind her bed for some missing article of
her costume, gave the bed such a shove that it went flying out of the
tent carrying the rustic railing with it, and they heard it go bumping
down the hillside.

"Strike one!" called Tiny ruefully. "That's what comes of being so
strong. I'll knock the tent down next."

"Will somebody please tell me where my middy is?" Jean cried tragically.
"I can't find it anywhere."

"Will someone tell _me_ where the other leg of my bloomers is?"
exclaimed Katherine. "I've shoved both feet through the same leg three
times, now. There goes the breakfast bugle!"

"Oh, where is my other stocking?"

"Where is my middy?"

"Who's gone south with my shoes?"

The threefold wail floated down on the breeze as footsteps began to run
down the Alley in the direction of the bungalow. A few minutes later the
occupants of Bedlam slid as unobtrusively as possible into the lighted
bungalow; Oh-Pshaw with her bloomers down around her ankles in a Turkish
effect, to hide the fact that she had on only one stocking; Jean with
her sweater buttoned tightly around her, Katherine with her red silk tie
bound around one knee to gather up the fullness of her bloomer leg, for
the elastic band had burst from the strain of accommodating two feet at
once; and Tiny had one white sneaker and one red Pullman slipper on.
Glancing around at the rest they saw many others in the same
plight--middies on hindside before, odd shoes and stockings, sweaters
instead of middies, and various other parodies on the regular camp
uniform--and immediately they ceased to feel conspicuous. Taking their
places around the table the campers proceeded to sing one of the morning
greetings:

"Good morning to you,
Good morning to you,
Good morning, dear comrades,
Good morning to you!"

"Did you have a good night's sleep?" was a question that made the
rounds of the table, with many droll replies, as the cereal was being
passed. Hilarity increased during the meal, as the absurdity of eating
cereal and fruit and toast at eight o'clock in the evening overcame the
girls one after the other, and the room rang with witty songs made up on
the spur of the moment.

At "Morning Sing" which followed breakfast, they solemnly sang "When
Morning Gilds the Skies," "Awake, my soul, and with the sun," "Kathleen
Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking," and other morning songs; the
program for the day was read, and Dr. Grayson gave a fatherly lecture on
the harmfulness of staying up after dark. Getting the tents ready for
tent inspection without lights was a proceeding which defies
description. Tiny Armstrong was still on the hillside searching for her
runaway bed when the Lone Wolf reached Bedlam in her tour of inspection,
and was given a large and black zero in consequence. She finally gave up
the search and wandered into Mateka, where, with lanterns hanging above
the long tables, Craft Hour was in full swing, the girls busily working
at clay modeling, wood-blocking and paddle decorating, while the moon,
round-eyed with astonishment, peeped through the doorway at the singular
sight. Still more astonished, the same moon looked down on the tennis
court an hour later, where a lively folk dance was going on to the
music of a graphaphone; couples spinning around in wild figures,
stepping on each other's feet and every now and then dropping down at
the outer edge of the court and shrieking with laughter, while the dance
continued faster and more furiously than before, till the sound of the
bugle sent the dancers flying swiftly to their tents to wriggle into
clammy, wet bathing suits that seemed in the dark to be an altogether
different shape from what they were in the daylight.

Standing on top of the diving tower when Tiny's cry of "All in!" rang
out, Sahwah leaped down into the darkness and had a queer, thrilling
moment in mid air when she wondered if she would ever strike the water,
or would go on indefinitely falling through the blackness. Laughing,
shouting, splashing, the campers sported in the water until all of a
sudden a red canoe shot into their midst and the director of Camp
Altamont, accompanied by two assistants, came in an advanced stage of
breathlessness to find out what the matter was. They heard the noise and
the splashing of water and thought some accident had occurred.

"No accident, thanks, only Camp Keewaydin stealing a march on old Father
Time and turning night into day," Dr. Grayson called from the dock, and
amid shouts of laughter from all around the messengers paddled back to
their camp to assure the wakened and excited boys that nothing had
happened, and that it was only another wild inspiration of the people
at Camp Keewaydin.

At midnight, when the bugle blew for dinner, everyone was as hungry as
at noon, and the kettle of cocoa and the trays of sandwiches were
emptied in a jiffy.

"Now what?" asked Dr. Grayson, looking around the table with twinkling
eyes, when the last crumb and the last drop of cocoa had disappeared.

"Rest hour," replied Mrs. Grayson emphatically. "Rest hour to last until
morning. Blow the bugle, Judy."

"Wasn't this the wildest evening we ever put in?" said Katherine,
fishing her hairbrush out of the water pail. "Where's Tiny?" she asked,
becoming aware that their Councilor was not in the tent,

"Down on the hill looking for her bed." replied Oh-Pshaw.

"Goodness, let's go down and help her," said Katherine, and Oh-Pshaw and
Jean streamed after her down the path. They stumbled over the bed before
they came to Tiny. It had turned over sidewise and fallen into a tiny
ravine, and as she had gone straight down the hill searching for it she
had missed it. Katherine stepped into the ravine, dragging the two
others with her, and at the bottom they landed on top of the bed.

Getting an iron cot up a steep hill is not the easiest thing in the
world, and when they had it up at the top of the hill they all sat down
on it and panted awhile before they could make it up. Then they
discovered that the pillow was missing and Katherine obligingly went
down the hill again to find it.

"I shan't get up again for a week," she sighed wearily as she stretched
between the sheets.

"Neither will I," echoed Tiny.

Jean and Oh-Pshaw did not echo. They were already asleep.

Katherine had just sunk into a deep slumber when she started at the
touch of a cold hand laid against her face. "What is it?" she cried out
sharply.

A face was bending over her, a pale little face framed in a lace boudoir
cap. Katherine recognized Carmen Chadwick. "What's the matter?" she
asked.

"My Councy's awful sick, and none of the other girls will wake up and I
don't know what to do," said Carmen in a scared voice.

"What's the matter with her?" asked Katherine.

"She ate too many blueberries, I guess; she's got an awful pain in her
stomach, and chills."

Katherine hugged her warm pillow. "Take the hot water bottle out of the
washstand," she directed, without moving. "There--it's on the top shelf.
There's hot water in the tank in the kitchen. And have you some Jamaica
ginger? No? Take ours--it's the only bottle on the top shelf. Now you'll
be all right."

Katherine sank back into slumber. A few minutes more and she was
awakened again by the same cold hand on her face.

"What is it now?"

"The Jamaica ginger," asked Carmen's thin voice in a bewildered tone,
"what shall I do with it? Shall I put it in the hot water bottle?"

Katherine's feet suddenly struck the floor together, and with an
explosive exclamation under her breath she sped over to Avernus and took
matters in hand herself. She had tucked Carmen into her own bed in
Bedlam, and she spent the remainder of the night over in Avernus, taking
care of the Lone Wolf, snatching a few moments' sleep in Carmen's bed
now and then when her patient felt easier. It was broad daylight before
she finally settled into uninterrupted slumber.




CHAPTER XI


EDWIN LANGHAM

Camp was more or less demoralized the next day. Miss Judy overslept and
did not blow the rising bugle until nearly noon, so dinner took the
place of breakfast and swimming hour came in the middle of the afternoon
instead of in the morning.

After swimming hour Agony went up to Miss Amesbury's balcony to return a
book she had borrowed. Miss Amesbury was not there, so Agony, as she
often did when she found her friend out, sat down to wait for her,
passing the time by looking at some sketches tying on the table. Turing
these over, Agony came upon a letter thrust in between the drawing
sheets, at the sight of which her heart began to flutter wildly. The
address on the envelope was in Mary Sylvester's handwriting--there was
no mistaking that firm, round hand; it was indelibly impressed upon
Agony's mind from seeing it on that other occasion. In a panic she
realized that the danger of being discovered was even greater than she
had thought, since Mary also wrote to Miss Amesbury. Was it not possible
that Mary had mentioned the robin incident in this letter? It now seemed
to Agony that Miss Amesbury's manner had been different toward her in
the last few days, on the trip. She seemed less friendly, less cordial.
Several times Agony had looked up lately to find Miss Amesbury regarding
her with a keen, grave scrutiny and a baffling expression on her face.
To Agony's tortured fancy these instances became magnified out of all
proportion, and the disquieting conviction seized her that Miss Amesbury
knew the truth. The thought nearly drove her mad. It tormented her until
she realized that there was only one way in which she could still the
tumult raging in her bosom, and that was by finding out for certain if
Mary had really told.

With shaking fingers she slipped the letter out of the open envelope,
and with cheeks aflame with shame at the thing she was doing, she
deliberately read Miss Amesbury's letter. It was much like the one Mary
had written to Jo Severance, full of clever descriptions of the places
she was seeing, and it made no mention either of the robin or of her.
With fingers shaking still more at the relief she felt, she put the
letter back into the envelope and replaced it between the sketches.
Then, trembling from head to foot at the reaction from her panic, she
turned her back upon the table and sat up against the railing, holding
her head in her hands and looking down at the fair sunlit river with
eyes that saw it not.

Miss Amesbury returned by and by and was so evidently pleased to see her
that Agony concluded she must have been mistaken in fancying any
coldness on her part during the last few days.

"I've a letter from Mary Sylvester," Miss Amesbury said almost at once,
"and because you are following so closely in Mary's footsteps I'm going
to read it to you." She smiled brightly into Agony's sober face and
paused to pat her on the shoulder before she fluttered over the pile of
sketches to find the letter.

Agony sat limply, listening to the words she had read a few minutes
before, despising herself thoroughly and wishing with all her heart that
she had never come to camp. Yet she forced herself to make appreciative
comments on the interesting things in the letter and to utter sincere
sounding exclamations of surprise at certain points.

"I've something to tell you that will please you," said Miss Amesbury,
after the letter had been put away.

"What is it?" asked Agony, looking up inquiringly.

"Someone you admire very much is going to visit Camp," replied Miss
Amesbury.

"Who?" Agony's eyes opened up very wide with surprise.

"Edwin Langham. He has been camping not very far from here and he is
going to run down on his way home and pay Dr. Grayson a flying visit.
They are old friends."

"Edwin Langham?" Agony gasped faintly, her head awhirl. It seemed past
comprehension that this man whom she had worshipped as a divinity for so
long was actually to materialize in the flesh--that the cherished desire
of her life was coming true, that she was going to see and talk with
him.

"Goodness, don't look so excited, child," said Miss Amesbury, laughing.
"He's only a man. A very rare and wonderful man, however," she added,
"and it is a great privilege to know him."

"When is he coming?" asked Agony in a whisper.

"Tomorrow afternoon. He is going to stop off between boats and will be
here only a short time."

"Do you suppose he will speak to me?" asked Agony humbly.

"I rather think he will," replied Miss Amesbury, smiling. "You see," she
continued, taking Agony's hand in hers as she spoke, "it just happened
that Edwin Langham was the man who sat under the tree that time you
climbed up and rescued the robin. He was laid up with blood poisoning in
his foot at the time and he had been wheeled into the woods from his
camp that afternoon. His man had left him for a short time when you
happened along. He was the man who told about the incident down at the
store at Green's Landing, where Dr. Grayson heard about it later from
the storekeeper. Dr. Grayson did not know at the time that it was his
friend Edwin Langham who had witnessed the affair, but in the letter Dr.
Grayson has just received from Mr. Langham he gives an enthusiastic
account of it, and says he is coming to camp partly for the purpose of
meeting the girl in the green bloomers who performed that splendid deed
that day. So you see, my dear," Miss Amesbury concluded, "I think it is
highly probable that you will have an opportunity to speak to your
idolized Edwin Langham."

For a moment things turned black before Agony's eyes. She rose
unsteadily to her feet and crossed the balcony to the stairs. "I must be
going, now," she murmured through dry lips.

"Must you go so soon?" asked Miss Amesbury with a real regret in her
voice that cut Agony to the heart.

"Come again, come often," floated after her as she passed through the
door.

Agony sped away from camp and hid herself away in the woods, where she
sank down at the foot of a great tree and hid her face in her hands. The
thing she had desired, had longed for above all others, was now about to
come to pass--and she had made it forever an impossibility. The cup of
joy that Fate had decreed she was to taste she had dashed to the ground
with her own hands. For she could not see Edwin Langham, could not let
him see her. As long as he did not see her her secret was safe. He did
not know her name, or Mary's, so he could not betray her in that way.
Only, if he ever saw her he would know the difference right away, and
then would come betrayal and disgrace. There was only one thing to do.
She must hide away from him; and give up her opportunity of meeting and
talking with him. It was the only way out of the predicament.

When the steamer swung into view around the bend of the river the next
afternoon Agony stole away into the thickest part of the woods and
proceeded toward a place she had discovered some time before. It was a
deep, extremely narrow ravine, so narrow indeed that it was merely a
great crock in the earth, not more than six feet across at its widest.
It was filled with a wild growth of elderberry bushes, which made it an
excellent hiding place. She scrambled down into this pit and crouched
under the bushes, completely hidden from view. Here she sat with her
head bowed down on her knees, hearing the whistle of the steamer as it
neared the dock, and the welcoming song of the girls as the
distinguished passenger alighted. A little later it seemed to her that
she heard voices calling her name. Yes, it was so, without a doubt. Tiny
Armstrong's megaphone voice came echoing on the breeze.

"A-go-ny! A-go-ny! Oh-h-h-h, A--go--ny!"

*       *       *       *       *

She clenched her hands in silent misery, and did not raise her head.
Then the sound of a bark arrested her attention, coming from directly
overhead, and she sat up in consternation. Micky, the bull pup belonging
to the Camp, had discovered her hiding place and would undoubtedly give
her away.

"Go away, Micky!" she commanded in a low tone. At the sound of her voice
Micky barked more loudly than ever, a joyous, welcoming bark. Having
been much petted by Agony, Micky had grown very fond of her, and seeing
her walk off into the woods today, he had followed after her, and now
gave loud voice to his satisfaction at finding her.

"Micky! Go away!" commanded Agony a second time, throwing a lump of dirt
at him. Micky looked astonished as the dirt flew past his nose, but
refused to retire.

"Well, if you won't go away, come down in here, then," said Agony.
"Here, Micky, Micky," she called coaxingly.

Micky, clumsy puppy that he was, made a wild leap into the ravine and
landed upon the sharp point of a jagged stump, cutting a jagged gash in
his shoulder. How he did howl! Agony expected every minute that the
whole camp would come running to the spot to find out what the matter
was. But fortunately the wind was blowing from the direction of Camp
and the sound was carried the other way. Agony worked frantically to get
the wound bound up and the poor puppy soothed into silence. At last he
lay still, with his head in her lap, licking her hand with his moppy red
tongue every few seconds to tell her how grateful he was.

Thus she sat until she heard the deep whistle of the returning steamer
and the farewell song of the girls as they stood on the dock and waved
goodbye to Edwin Langham. When she was sure that the boat must be out of
sight she shoved Micky gently out of her lap and rose to climb out of
her hiding place. Her feet were asleep from sitting so long in her
cramped position and as she tried to get a foothold on the steep side of
the ravine she slipped and fell headlong, striking her head on a stump
and twisting her back. It was not until night that they found her, after
her continued absence from camp had roused alarm, and searching parties
had been made up to scour the woods. Tiny Armstrong, shouting her way
through the woods, first heard a muffled bark and then a feeble answer
to her call, coming from the direction of the ravine, and charging
toward it like a fire engine she discovered the two under the elderberry
bushes.

Agony was lifted gently out and laid on the ground to await the coming
of an improvised stretcher.

"We hunted and hunted for you this afternoon," said Jo Severance,
bending over her with an anxious face. "The poet, Edwin Langham, was
here, and he wanted especially to see you, and was dreadfully
disappointed when we couldn't find you. He left a book here for you."

"Oh," groaned Agony, and those hearing her thought that she must be in
great physical pain.

"How did you happen to fall into that ravine?" asked Jo.

Agony was becoming light headed from the blow on her temple, and she
answered in disjointed phrases.

"Didn't fall in--went down--purpose. Micky--fell in--hurt shoulder--I
bandaged it--fell trying--to--get--out."

Her voice trailed off weakly toward the end.

"There, don't talk," said Dr. Grayson. "We understand all about it. The
dog fell in and hurt himself and you went down after him and then fell
in yourself. Being kind to dumb animals again. Noble little girl. We're
proud of you."

Agony heard it all as in a dream, but could summon no voice to speak.
She was _so_ tired. After all, why not let them think that? It was the
best way out. Otherwise they might wonder how she happened to be in the
ravine--it would be hard for them to believe that she had fallen into it
herself in broad daylight, and it might be embarrassing to answer
questions. Let them believe that she had gone down after the dog. That
settled the matter once for all.

The stretcher arrived and she was carried to her tent, where Dr. Grayson
made a thorough examination of her injuries.

"Not serious," was his verdict, to everybody's immense relief. "Painful
bump on the head, but no real damage done, and back strained a little,
that's all."

Once more Agony was the camp heroine, and her tent was crowded all day
long with admirers. Miss Amesbury sat and read to her by the hour; the
camp cook made up special dishes and sent them out on a tray trimmed
with wild flowers; the camp orchestra serenaded her daily and nightly,
and half a dozen clever camp poets made up songs in her honor. Fame
comes easily in camps, and enthusiasm runs high while it lasts.

Agony reflected, in a grimly humorous way, that in the matter of fame
she had a sort of Midas touch; everything she did rebounded to her
glory, now that the ball was once started rolling. And worst of all was
the book that Edwin Langham had left for her, a beautiful copy of "The
Desert Garden," bound in limp leather with gold edged leaves. Inside the
cover was written in a flowing, beautiful hand:

"To A.C.W., in memory of a certain day in the woods.
From one who rejoices in a brave and noble deed.
Sincerely, Edwin Langham."

On the opposite page was written a quotation which Agony had been
familiar with ever since she had become a Winnebago:

"Love is the joy of service so deep that self is
forgotten."

She put the book away where she could not see it, but the words had
burned themselves into her brain.

"To A.C.W. From one who rejoices in a brave and noble
deed."

They mocked her in the dead of night, they taunted her in the light of
day. But, like the boy with the fox gnawing at his vitals, Agony
continued to smile and make herself agreeable, and no one ever suspected
that her gayety was not genuine.




CHAPTER XII