The scene was almost too beautiful and mysterious to be witnessed by oneself. Besides, in the past few months she had grown so accustomed to being in the society of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls that she was almost uncomfortable any great length of time without them.

Now it would have been pleasant to have heard Bettina’s pretty fancies, or to have had Peggy dispel the mists by a practical suggestion, or to have listened to Alice’s or Ellen’s scientific explanation of clouds, or to have beheld Sally and Gerry giggling irresponsibly over something which had nothing to do with mists or ghosts or canyons.

Yet Mrs. Burton lingered until the dawn had fully come and all the sky was rose crimson. Then, glancing at her watch, she started toward camp.

In another half hour the girls would be up and preparing breakfast. As no one knew where she had disappeared it was possible that her Sister Mollie might become uneasy.

Once in the woods again she walked more hurriedly, not only because she feared being late, but for another more absurd reason. Unexpectedly Mrs. Burton had the sensation of being followed.

She did not see any one or anything, and was not even sure that she heard distinctly. Nevertheless her impression was vivid.

Twice she stopped and waited; once she called aloud; the second time, very like the one-time Polly O’Neill, she stamped her foot, crying out:

“If any one is playing a prank on me, please understand that I am weary of it.”

There was no answer. However, afterwards she had no longer the sensation of being pursued.

At camp Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams were busy preparing breakfast. Camp life was at least eventful when these two girls were at work.

Really, once stirred out of her slothfulness, Sally Ashton, who was essentially feminine, was an extraordinarily good cook. However, she required several persons to wait upon her while she was at work.

This morning, in honor of Mrs. Webster, she was making a new cornmeal bread from a recipe which the Indian girl, Dawapa, had taught her.

She had Dan Webster engaged in assisting her. Dan not only brought fresh wood for her fire every few moments, but in between his pilgrimages watched with anxiety the cakes slowly browning in the hot ashes. Sally was never content unless she had at least one man or boy engaged in her active service. As a matter of fact if one were about she did not find this difficult to accomplish.

She waved a plump little hand toward their guardian when Mrs. Burton strolled into camp. Over the great pan of bacon she was frying Gerry Williams threw her a kiss.

There was no one else about. A little tired from her walk, Mrs. Burton sat down a short distance from the fire, for the warmth was pleasant, and, embracing her knees, began rocking slowly back and forward just as Polly O’Neill had always done when she wished to work out a problem.

Mrs. Burton was again considering her group of Camp Fire girls. How pretty Sally looked! Her hair lay in soft brown curls over her white forehead. She did not tan as the other girls. At the moment her big brown eyes were shining with an animation she did not always show. She was wearing a big apron over her Camp Fire dress.

Deliciously domestic Sally appeared to be working out-of-doors! For, although Sally did belong to the type of women whom we choose to call especially feminine, she had gone far beyond the history of the primitive woman. Sally’s idea was to enslave, certainly not to be enslaved.

In appearance she and Gerry Williams were a complete contrast, although having many tastes in common.

Since the trouble between Gerry Williams and Bettina Graham, Gerry and the Camp Fire guardian had not continued such devoted friends. Until then, except for her niece, Peggy Webster, Gerry had undoubtedly been Mrs. Burton’s favorite among her group of girls.

But Gerry’s effort to force Bettina to remain behind in the Indian’s house, in order to place her in a false position during their last camping experience, had appeared not only mischievous but malicious. Mrs. Burton wondered if she had been right in bringing a girl of Gerry’s training and tastes to live with girls who had been brought up so differently. She still said nothing to any one of them concerning Gerry’s history, but she had one talk with the girl herself. Afterwards Gerry apologised, both to Bettina and to her and appeared to repent her behavior.

Now, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton could not trust her as she had at the beginning of their friendship, nevertheless Gerry’s prettiness and affectionate manners never failed to appeal to her. She returned the kiss light-heartedly.

A few moments later the other Camp Fire girls appeared.

Peggy took away her aunt’s coat and hat, since Marie had not been seen since the night before. She was no longer sleeping in Mrs. Burton’s tent, but in a tent with several of the girls.

Alice Ashton reported to Mrs. Burton that Marie had not yet lifted her head from the pillow, so overcome did she appear to be, either from relief or regret at the loss of Mr. Simpson.

Breakfast was about ready to serve before Mrs. Webster and Billy finally came out to join the others. They were an odd contrast—the mother and son—suggesting the homely but immortal comparison of the hen with the ugly duckling.

Mrs. Webster—who had once been Molly O’Neill—had cheeks round and soft and rosy as a girl’s. Her blue eyes were filled with the sweetness of a loving and unquestioning nature. She was well past her youth and yet, in spite of her comfortable plumpness and the few grey hairs among the black ones, to the persons who loved her she seemed to grow prettier and sweeter as she grew older. Certainly her own family adored her.

But Billy Webster, her son, was a delicate boy with fair hair and large blue eyes. His expression was difficult to understand until one came to know that Billy questioned everything, but, having decided for himself acted, whenever it was possible, solely upon his own judgment.

When Dan Webster started forward to join his mother and offer his morning greeting, one felt better satisfied. For, except that he was big and strong and virile, he was exactly like her, both in appearance and apparently in character.

The Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls were in the habit of beginning each day with some little ceremony appropriate to their outdoor life and the spirit of their Camp Fire. Each member had her appointed time, for a morning ceremony. Today chanced to be Mrs. Burton’s.

When everybody had assembled she walked toward a clearing and stood with her face to the east and her back against a group of pine trees with a growth of underbrush between.

“I am sorry all of you were not with me this morning at daylight. To have recited my verse then would have been more appropriate,” she began.

However, what she recited was not so important, since always Mrs. Burton’s audiences heard her with thrilling interest. For one reason, the voice of the great actress was so beautiful and appealing. Like the great Sara Bernhardt she would have been able to stir her hearers both to laughter and tears by a mere recital of the alphabet, could she have spoken as Bernhardt did in a language unfamiliar to her listeners.

“This verse is a part of the Indian New Fire ceremony and seemed to me appropriate to our morning camp fire,” she explained.

Some vivid, charming quality appeared to be born anew in Polly O’Neill Burton each time she faced an audience, no matter how small and unimportant. This love of her work was perhaps the surest expression of her genius.

She now lifted her head, the color coming swiftly to her face, and pointing to the sun and then toward their own fire she spoke in a beautiful resonant voice:

The last words sounded like an invocation to happiness. However, it was Mrs. Burton who started forward, saying unexpectedly:

“Dan, there is some one watching us. I was under the impression I was being followed in my walk this morning. Why, I cannot understand! Will you find out who it is?”

Then, without replying, Dan went quickly forward into the nearby woods.

CHAPTER IV
A New Girl

There was an instant of waiting, then a little cry quickly suppressed. Soon after Dan could be heard returning.

But when he appeared he was half leading, half carrying, a girl of about fifteen or sixteen who did not look like a formidable intruder. She was small and her face was pale; at the moment her lips were pressed tightly together. Yet, in spite of her effort at self-control, her eyes were full of tears, either of anger, embarrassment or pain.

Yet, although Dan was resolutely holding her to the duty of facing the Camp Fire party, he was perfectly gentle. It would have been impossible for him to be otherwise.

Immediately Mrs. Burton walked forward. There was something about the girl that attracted her. She was not pretty; her features were too irregular; she had a long nose a little crooked, a wide mouth, and her chin was too sharply pointed for the breadth of her brow. But her eyes were a fascinating grey-green with extremely dark brows and lashes, and her hair was reddish brown.

“I am sorry,” the Camp Fire guardian began quickly. “Dan and I must both have been mistaken in thinking you the person we were seeking. But you must forgive my nephew, the fault was mine. I was under the impression that some one was spying upon us, and who, for some absurd reason, was not willing to be discovered.”

The girl shook her head. “You were not mistaken. I have been watching you—or trying to—since early this morning. And I hate your having discovered me.”

She spoke quietly in a soft but at the same time throaty voice, as if she were a little hoarse.

Polly Burton was puzzled and yet it was stupid of her to have been. It was true that here in the West in the past few months, living outdoors with her group of Camp Fire girls, she had honestly forgotten a number of facts about herself.

“I don’t understand.”

But at this instant, murmuring something or other in apology, Dan Webster moved a few steps aside.

The girl turned her head.

“Don’t let go your hold on me,” she said almost angrily.

Again Dan held out his arm and this time the girl clutched it.

Dan’s face was crimson; he felt the whole situation to be extraordinarily awkward. He was not quick either in thought or action and undoubtedly he was confused by the words and the behavior of the girl who had been his prisoner a few moments before. Now she held on to him as if she dared not let go. He could feel her hand trembling on his arm and indeed her whole body was shaking.

Then Dan gave an inward sigh of relief, seeing that his mother was approaching them.

“You have hurt yourself, haven’t you, child?” she began in a sensible comfortable fashion. “I presume you were merely curious about my sister and our Camp Fire proceedings. I know the information has gone out over the neighborhood that we wished to be left to ourselves. You understand my sister has to see so many people when she is playing that she has let it be known she wishes to meet nobody here. If you have been trying to see her without being observed, she must remember a time, which does not seem so long ago to me, when she was only a stage-struck girl herself. There, take my arm and let Dan help you to my tent.”

The girl had looked unhappy at the beginning of Mrs. Webster’s speech, but before the close she laughed a little uncertainly.

“I am afraid that is true,” she returned. “In any case I owe you an apology, Mrs. Burton.” She had dropped the lids over her eyes to hide her chagrin, but she went on honestly. “I suppose I am a stage-struck girl, although I do not like hearing myself called one. But I did come over here this morning at daylight for a look at your camp. Of course I never dreamed of seeing you. But when you started for your walk I did go along near you, as I did not suppose you would either see or hear me. But it was wonderful just to be so near you!”

In the meantime Peggy Webster had slipped forward and now stood alongside her aunt.

“Don’t be hateful, Tante,” she whispered warningly, knowing from experience that her aunt’s good nature was not always to be relied upon under trying circumstances. Moreover she had forgotten, as ninety-nine people out of a hundred do, when they arrive at distinction, how she had felt toward famous persons in her own youth.

But on this occasion Peggy need not have been uneasy.

The new girl was evidently of gentle breeding in spite of the shabbiness of her attire and the fact that she was rather more plain than good looking.

“Nonsense, child, it is oftentimes distinctly disagreeable to be near me, as my Camp Fire girls may tell you. But come and have breakfast with us, if you really have been prowling about since daylight as I have. I am dreadfully hungry.”

She started away with Peggy, expecting the others to follow. Either Mrs. Burton had not heard her sister’s speech, or else believed that her beloved Mollie was only fussing over the newcomer’s health as she did over everybody’s.

“Thank you, I would rather not be troublesome,” the new girl answered.

At this she let go Dan’s arm and took a step forward. But the pain of walking alone was too great for her self-control.

As people always did in disaster she turned to Mrs. Webster.

“I fear I have hurt myself and it is so stupid of me. Really I don’t know what to do. You see I did not want to be discovered and when I heard some one coming after me I started to run. I must have tripped and fallen over a stump in the underbrush. As soon as I got up I was a prisoner.”

She flashed a peculiar glance at Dan Webster; but whether she was angry or amused over his discomfiture it was difficult to decide. Yet Dan looked wretched enough to satisfy the most teasing desire for revenge. He had the sweetest and most chivalrous temper in the world. No one ever remembered Dan’s deliberately hurting any one in his life. Now he undoubtedly felt as if he had caused a perfectly innocent girl to do herself a painful injury and had afterwards treated her with unpardonable rudeness. But it was not difficult to make Dan Webster feel himself in the wrong, both his sister Peggy, and his twin brother, frequently taking advantage of this trait of his character.

“You are not a prisoner in any sense,” Mrs. Webster replied, speaking more coldly, and appreciating Dan’s embarrassment. “But if you are hurt we shall be glad to do what we can for you and some one will drive you back to your home.”

More humbly the girl then took hold of Mrs. Webster’s proffered arm, and still holding on to Dan, started toward Mrs. Webster’s tent not many yards away.

In a curious fashion Dan felt that, in spite of her pretense of anger, the girl by his side felt a reliance upon him. And for some reason he could not explain he was interested in her. She was not half so pretty as many of the Camp Fire girls—Sally Ashton and Gerry Williams for instance. Yet there was something fascinating in her grey-green eyes, in her long nose with that funny twist at the end of it, and in the uncertainty of her behavior.

Naturally Dan thought it ridiculous of the strange girl to have been hiding about in their neighborhood for the very ordinary pleasure of beholding his famous aunt.

Dan did not take Mrs. Burton or her fame as an actress seriously. Indeed, unconsciously he had inherited some of his father’s old prejudice against women in any kind of public life. He was fond of his aunt, but not as Peggy was, or even his brother, Billy. For, although Billy did not bestow much affection upon any human being, except his mother and Vera Lageloff, he admired Mrs. Burton, was proud of her success, and was really more influenced by her opinion than any one’s else.

The new girl walked with difficulty, but Dan could not help admiring her pluck. Ordinarily her skin was sallow but it was an odd greenish-white at present.

Outside his mother’s tent Dan departed to find Ellen Deal.

Since the arrival of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls in Arizona, Ellen Deal had had but few opportunities for the display of her usefulness as a trained nurse. She had not graduated in nursing, since a breakdown in health had prevented her from finishing the last year of training. But she was older than the other Camp Fire girls and had come West with them because of Dr. Sylvia Wharton’s request made to her half sister and always her beloved friend, Polly O’Neill, or Mrs. Richard Burton.

The call to the sick, however, with Ellen was like the call to arms with a soldier.

Fifteen minutes later, when Dan was finishing a belated breakfast, Ellen reappeared and sat down beside him. The next moment he saw the new girl come out of his mother’s tent with her assistance and drop down on a cushion outside.

“Nothing serious the matter, as far as I can tell,” Ellen announced in the business-like manner which seems to be considered professional. “Nevertheless I would like to have a doctor if one can be found over at the hotel or anywhere nearby. Our unexpected visitor has bruised and strained her knee and it may be worse than I think.”

“Dan won’t you take your victim, or our victim, her breakfast,” Mrs. Burton suggested, smiling and yet looking sympathetic. Having finished her own breakfast she and Peggy had arranged a breakfast tray for their uninvited guest.

“Sit here, Dan,” his mother announced a few moments later on his arrival before her tent. Then she hurried away to her own meal.

Dan sat silently watching the new girl.

She was evidently trying to show self-control. Yet it seemed impossible for her to choke the breakfast down, in spite of the fact that Sally had made new corn bread especially for her. Her lips kept twitching and finally the tears ran unchecked down her face.

“I am sorry you are in such pain,” Dan said gently, and there was something very attractive in his gentleness, combined as it was with his beauty and strength. “I’ll find a doctor for you in a little while.”

To his surprise his companion again turned upon him angrily.

“I am not crying because I am in pain. I am not quite so ridiculous.” Then her nose twitched in a funny fashion and she added with the hoarse note in her voice which was so unusual, “I am crying because I am such a—such a fool.”

In spite of his wish to be sympathetic, Dan laughed.

“Oh, that is a common enough experience.”

But the girl shook her head.

“No,” she answered quietly, “there are a good many foolish people in the world, I know, but there are degrees. It seems to me I am the most hopeless kind.” She turned her eyes full upon Dan and curiously he was reminded of certain pools in his own New Hampshire woods on a soft grey day.

“My name is Marta Clark. I meant to tell you before. My brother and I are here living in a tent not far away from your camp—a few miles I believe. My brother broke down in health and we had to come out here because of him. He is still very ill and I have been taking care of him. If I can’t even hobble about for a few days I don’t know what is to become of us. Besides he has not the faintest idea where I am. I realized he would not allow me to prowl about trying to see Mrs. Burton if he knew, although he and I had talked of her being here. We had seen her act once and adored her.”

“Oh, you’ll find some one able to look after him for a few days well enough,” Dan replied, not viewing the matter as seriously as his new acquaintance did.

Again the girl flashed what seemed to be an angry glance toward him.

“I don’t enjoy your forcing me to confess the fact,” she went on, “but my brother and I are desperately poor—far too poor to hire any one to take care of us, even for a few days. He was working and taking care of me, and when his illness came we had almost nothing. He was only a reporter on a paper and I was at school.”

“Nevertheless,” said Dan firmly, “I am sure we shall manage in some way to have you cared for until you are all right again.”

The girl’s face cleared, and Dan noticed that she had a rather care-worn look which her words had just explained.

“I don’t know why I should feel it when we are utter strangers, but you do look as if you could make things happen the way they should. I suppose it is because you are strong and patient. I am neither of those things.”

But they could not go on talking because, at this moment, the Camp Fire guardian was coming toward them.

CHAPTER V
The Patient

“But it is awfully kind of you, Ellen.”

Ellen Deal shook her head.

“No,” she answered. “I shall like it. Since I came out West with you and the Camp Fire girls, Mrs. Burton, I have been feeling that perhaps I was here under false pretenses. You see I am older than the other girls, and came partly because Dr. Sylvia told me I might be useful to you. Except for showing you a few first aid remedies I have not been useful at all. I don’t feel that I am a particularly agreeable companion, so I add nothing to the pleasure of the Camp Fire in that way.”

“Nonsense,” the Camp Fire guardian responded. Nevertheless a slight pang of self-reproach assailed her. Had she allowed Ellen Deal to feel that she was of less interest to the Camp Fire group than the other girls? It was true that Ellen was older, that she was midway between the age of a Camp Fire girl and a possible guardian. But, more than this, she seemed to have one of the hard and matter-of-fact natures it is always difficult to reach. Romance, the dreams and desires that are a part of nearly every life, hardly appeared to touch Ellen; or if they did at least she gave no sign. In their months together amid perhaps as beautiful and extraordinary scenery as there is anywhere in the world, Ellen had showed no enthusiasm; in her life with the Camp Fire girls, no especial affection except, perhaps, in friendship with Alice Ashton.

“However, she was looking in a great deal better health,” Mrs. Burton reflected, and the present moment was scarcely the time for introspection by either of them.

“Just the same it is good of you, Ellen, besides not another one of us would be equal to the task. But if it is too much for you, you must let us know. Peggy is going with you now and I’ll drive over in the morning to see how you are getting on.”

“Thank you,” Ellen replied gratefully. Yet she would like to have said so much more—to have told Mrs. Burton how greatly she appreciated her kindness in allowing her, an entire stranger, to be one of her group of Camp Fire girls and also her guest for the past three months. However, words never came easily to her, for she was not one of the fortunate persons who can make themselves charming by the simple gift of expression, which may or may not be sincere.

Then she went away to pack her bag with a few necessary articles for the work ahead of her.

It was to Ellen Deal that Dan Webster had first confided the difficult position of their unexpected guest. Immediately Ellen had suggested that she go with the new girl to her camp and there see what should be done. Besides the fact of her brother’s illness, the girl herself would require looking after for a few days, if not for a longer time.

Later Mrs. Webster and Mrs. Burton had given a more or less enforced consents since, under the circumstances, there seemed nothing else to be done.

“Ellen certainly looks competent,” Polly decided at this moment, watching her move away. Her figure was small and neat, suggesting a great deal of reserve strength; her sandy hair had grown a shade brighter in tone from her months in the sunshine and her always bright color, brighter. It was a pity that she appeared so severe and critical.

This, also, was Marta Clark’s impression, riding beside Ellen, Dan and Peggy occupying the front seat of the wagon which the Camp Fire party ordinarily used for carrying provisions.

Naturally Marta felt under deep obligations to the strange young woman beside her, yet she would like to have been able to prepare her for certain revelations ahead.

Ellen looked so scrupulously tidy. Then Marta knew the Camp Fire ideals and training which Ellen had added to her nursing ones. And her own housekeeping left so much to be desired. In fact Marta realized that she was careless, and her brother equally so. How would Miss Deal survive for even a few days with them, in spite of her spirit of self-sacrifice? Certainly Marta hated to accept so great a favor as the care of herself and her brother must represent. Yet, she too appreciated the fact that there seemed nothing else to be done.

The ride did not occupy half an hour, Marta naturally directing the way.

Nevertheless it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning before the little party reached the new camp.

Two tents were situated in a small clearing at the foot of a rocky hill. Near them was the remains of a camp fire and not far away a litter of old papers and tin cans. In front of one tent there was an invalid’s chair and also a cot. Yet neither of them were occupied.

“I wonder where Rob can be,” Marta said, trying to conceal her evident nervousness from the three strangers.

She need scarcely have asked the question. The moment the wagon stopped, a tall, abnormally thin young fellow came quickly toward them, evidently having heard their approach from some distance off. He was breathless and the color was burning crimson on his high cheek bones. He looked like Marta except that he was handsomer, for his features were more regular, although the brother and sister had nearly the same coloring.

He bowed politely enough to the strangers in the little party. But afterwards, something, perhaps his own illness and weakness, seemed to destroy his self-control.

“Where have you been, Marta? What has happened? I have been searching for you ever since six o’clock. I wakened to find you gone, and after waiting an hour for you to come back I thought, or rather I could not think, what had become of you. You are considerate not to have left me a message.”

There was an angry sarcasm in the young man’s voice and manner which was extraordinarily out of place under the circumstances. Dan felt so sorry for the girl with them, that he would like to have settled with her brother, except for the apparent fact of his illness. But a high temper was evidently a family characteristic. Dan recalled Marta’s mentioning that she and her brother were from Kentucky.

But, even while he was speaking, the young fellow had to grasp hold of the wagon for support.

Marta was trying to explain to him, when Ellen Deal climbed quietly out.

“You are not strong enough to be on your feet any longer; you must have been walking about for several hours, when you know you are not expected to take any exercise,” she said authoritatively. Then, without the least hesitation or embarrassment, she took the perfectly strange young man by the elbow and led him to his chair. He accompanied her without a protest.

Afterwards, while Dan and Peggy were helping Marta to alight from the wagon, Ellen tried to make him understand what had occurred.

Secretly Rob Clark was both ashamed and amused by the situation—ashamed of his own exhibition of temper, for he was good-natured on most occasions. But also he was amused by the strange young woman’s immediate command of him. However he really was too weak to protest and, after discovering his sister’s injury, grateful to the newcomer beyond his present strength to express.

A short time after Ellen was in complete command, both of the situation and her two patients.

Marta was stretched on the cot in front of the tent and her brother had not been allowed to move from his chair.

With Peggy’s and Dan’s aid a fresh fire had been built and beef tea fed the invalid, who confessed to having had no breakfast because of his anxiety. Also the confusion inside the tent had been a little straightened out, although Dan and Peggy were obliged to leave when they might still have been useful.

However, they, too, were under Ellen’s command. She insisted that they drive over to the big hotel not far away in order to secure the advice of a physician. He was to be asked to come at once.

And seeing them depart, promising to return next day, Marta was not sure whether she was sorry or glad of the results of her own impertinence and the accident due to it. These months alone with her brother had been very depressing. They had no friends in the West and now, perhaps, if she behaved herself, the Camp Fire girls might be kind to her.

CHAPTER VI
A Wager

Peggy Webster was standing alone, smoothing the shaggy coat of one of the pair of mules hitched to their wagon. Her brother had gone into the hotel nearby to find a physician for their new acquaintance.

Peggy was not wearing her Camp Fire dress. She was under the impression that it made her more conspicuous in coming to a fashionable hotel, such as this one. The guests might or might not understand the reason for her unusual costume.

However, being Peggy, characteristically her toilet was of the simplest and most convenient kind. She had on a short, tan-colored corduroy skirt and jacket, a cream silk blouse and a corduroy hat. She also wore riding boots of brown leather, finding them more convenient than ordinary shoes.

Yet, in spite of her simplicity, perhaps because of it, she made a charming figure. She was of medium height and slender, with broad shoulders and narrow hips; although Peggy was sixteen, she still suggested in the carriage of her head and body the vitality and grace of a boy rather than a girl. It was difficult to analyze this quality of the girl’s which, however, people recognized at once. It may have come from a certain independence of spirit—a love of outdoor things—a straightforwardness and an avoidance of the emotions which most girls enjoy. Yet none of these qualities are essentially boyish, since ninety-nine boys out of a hundred may not possess them, but the description is used for want of a better one.

From the three months of living outdoors Peggy’s olive skin was a deeper tone and her color more brilliant. In her Camp Fire costume she sometimes wore her hair loose; but on occasions like this, it was braided and fastened close about her small head. In looking close at Peggy, what one was forced to admire in her most was the clearness and beauty of her dark eyes, which stared straight into yours with a perfect faith that the ideals of every human being were as clear and sincere as her own. Another charm was the unconsciously proud tilt of her short, straight nose and chin.

Glancing up to see if her brother had finished his errand, Peggy saw an immaculate figure coming toward her over the carefully tended grounds of the hotel.

She waved a friendly hand toward him, the young man returning her greeting more languidly.

“Gotten up regardless, aren’t you Ralph?” Peggy remarked good-naturedly, as Ralph Marshall joined her.

She did not dislike him as Bettina Graham did; indeed Peggy rarely disliked any one. And Ralph had been coming to their place in New Hampshire for a portion of his holidays for several years. He was ordinarily sweet-tempered and obliging and his affectations and lack of interest in serious matters only amused Peggy, if she happened to think of them at all, while they made Bettina angry.

“Oh, I am showing the West how the thing ought to be done,” he answered with equal good temper, surveying himself with a not unpleasant vanity. For Ralph was extraordinarily good looking—rather too much so to be desirable in a man, according to some ideas. In spite of the fact that it was morning, Ralph was wearing a tennis costume of such amazing perfection that he suggested a magazine advertisement.

“I thought you would soon get tired of roughing it on Mr. Gardener’s ranch,” Peggy went on. “After a while, Ralph, you will have surveyed all human occupations and found none of them worth the effort of pursuing, won’t you?”

Ralph laughed. “I say, Peggy, that is unworthy of you. Such severity should have come from Bettina Graham. Why can’t you think I left the Gardener ranch in order to be nearer the Camp Fire girls, even if you are not enthusiastic over my society? By the way, Terry Benton and Howard Brent are here with me for a few weeks. They both felt a holiday was due them, and naturally, as I was so near, I wished to see the Grand Canyon.”

Peggy nodded. “I am glad Howard Brent is with you, I like him.”