The next instant there appeared above him the wise grey head of a small burro, with a long-legged man seated on his back. But, best of all, the burro had a rope thrown carelessly about his neck.
The man and the burro did look as if they represented a special act of Providence, but the reason for their sudden appearance was a very simple one indeed.
Mrs. Burton had not known of Peggy’s and Ralph’s intention to go on farther down the trail, until five or ten minutes after their disappearance with Howard Brent, when Bettina came to her and mentioned the fact. Mrs. Burton had been occupied with other things and, after the safe arrival of the Camp Fire party on this plateau of rock where they were to spend the day, had gone away from the others and laid down for a few minutes.
Indeed, her eyes were closed and she was half asleep when Bettina found her. But Bettina was too uneasy not to confide in her at once.
Mrs. Burton immediately shared Bettina’s anxiety. If Mrs. Webster had given her consent, it was because she knew nothing of the dangers of the rocky trails and Peggy had clouded her judgment.
But she did not go to her sister. It was Mrs. Burton’s idea, as it had always been Polly O’Neill’s, that Mollie should be spared whenever possible. So she found one of their guides and sent him on down the trail after the wanderers as quickly as he could be started.
The burro was to save Peggy the fatigue and danger of the ascent, and the rope was merely a safeguard in case one of the two young men should slip.
The guide was down by Howard Brent and had his rope coiled like a lasso in an incredibly short time. He had been a ranchman and the art was entirely familiar to him.
A moment later it was safely around Ralph’s body and Peggy was able to let go, while the two men drew Ralph up to safety.
It was curious but it seemed more difficult for Peggy to hold on after her burden had been taken from her, than it had been before. It happens this way in life with other burdens. She was so stiff and so tired that her own volition was gone.
But, something, a something that is oftentimes stronger than one’s will—an inherited instinct—made her continue her clutch on the small tree.
It was only a brief time. For with the rope now about his own waist, Howard Brent soon after crawled down to her. Holding her in one arm he climbed with the other using his feet as well and assisted by the guide from above.
“With the Rope Now About His Own Waist, Howard Brent Crawled Down to Her.”
The two men had simply laid Ralph aside in a crevice of rock above the trail, as soon as his rescue had been effected.
He was still unconscious when Peggy reached safety.
She did not feel frightened about herself—only incredibly tired. But Ralph’s face frightened her.
Peggy had never seen any one unconscious before—the whiteness and the drawn look of the nose and mouth were startling.
She went over to him at once.
“Ralph,” she said, shaking him gently.
Then she turned to Howard Brent.
“Is Ralph dead?” she asked quietly, yet with a queer note in her voice.
Howard stared at her.
“Oh, Lord, no,” he returned, not with much show of feeling. “There is nothing the matter with Ralph except that he bumped his head as he went over. He will be all right in a little while. He was a good deal of a chump to have gone so near the edge of the cliff and more of a chump to have dragged you along with him.”
Peggy did not answer. She knew, of course, that Ralph had not intended any harm should befall her, but it was not worth while arguing the point then.
Instead, she managed to seat herself in a half upright position, but so she could get Ralph’s head in her lap.
“Ralph,” she kept repeating over and over in a gentle, penetrating voice. She believed her voice would somehow reach her companion’s consciousness. She had the control and the sense of having braced herself to meet an emergency, which was characteristic of Peggy Webster. But there was no doubting the depth of her feeling; nor of how much affection she felt for her friend.
It was there in her face, as well, and Ralph saw it when he first opened his eyes. Howard Brent was also a witness. If Ralph had wished proof that he had won his wager and had made Peggy Webster care for him by a few weeks of careless attention, his proof was undeniable.
Yet Ralph had no thought except gratitude and admiration. Peggy Webster was the clearest-eyed, the bravest, and the truest girl he had ever known in his life. Ralph remembered his own instinctive clutch after her and would have given five years of his life to wipe out the memory.
But Peggy was perfectly sensible and matter of fact by this time.
In her pocket she had the usual first aid Camp Fire necessities. Ralph’s head was only cut and not deeply, as far as one could see. She merely bandaged it until they could reach the flat table-land above. There they would find water and whatever else was required.
In spite of his protest Ralph was made to ride the burro, with the guide ahead leading them both, and Howard assisted Peggy.
It was a sorry little party and not impressive. If Peggy had not been so tired she would have been amused at the spectacle they presented, after only about a half an hour’s exploration of the Grand Canyon.
But she really did wish to make as light of the situation as possible.
“Please don’t say a great deal about how stupid Ralph and I were, Mr. Brent. That is, let us agree not to tell any more than we positively must. If mother and my aunt learn that I pitched over a cliff they will be so wretched over what might have happened to me—and did not—that it will spoil their pleasure, and perhaps everybody’s. I am awfully grateful to you,” she ended shyly; “of course, we would both have come to grief without you.”
“No; the guide would have looked after you, and I was of no value without him,” Howard Brent returned brusquely. He was in a bad temper and, although he did not wish to vent it upon Peggy, he found it almost impossible to conceal his anger.
He never had thought much of Ralph Marshall and he thought considerably less of him at present. That a girl like Peggy Webster should waste her affection upon him was annoying under any circumstances. But that she should do so under the particular conditions which he had heard being arranged by Ralph and Terry Benton was unendurable.
Yet Howard had not altogether made up his mind. He thought Peggy should be told of their wager and yet had not finally decided to tell her himself.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her at once, but here was of course neither the time nor the place. She was such a plucky little person and looked so used up, although insisting that she was perfectly fit. Howard had suggested that he carry her a part of the way, but Peggy had only laughed at him.
Nevertheless, the young man felt perfectly capable of doing it and he probably was. He was four or five years older than Peggy Webster and really had believed, ever since their first meeting, that he would like her for a friend. He had no sister of his own, but if he had had one, Howard Brent felt that he would have been proud to have her like Peggy.
In the last ten days he had been made wretchedly uncomfortable by her innocent straightforwardness in accepting Ralph Marshall’s attentions. Therefore, as he considered the confession must be made, he might as well meet the situation. Later in the day when Peggy had rested, Howard at length concluded he must tell her himself. There was no one else for the unpleasant task.
But during their walk up the trail Howard did but very little talking and Peggy was grateful. She did wish to appear as self-controlled and as indifferent to her experience as she could, before rejoining her mother and friends. Bettina and her aunt might be angry as well as alarmed, for she should not have insisted upon going down the second trail against Bettina’s advice and her aunt’s knowledge.
Nevertheless, there was considerable excitement when the three adventurers returned. And, because of the injury to his head, all day Howard Brent had to see Ralph being made more or less a hero of by the Camp Fire girls.
Peggy was more exhausted from her experience than she had realized and remained a great part of time quietly seated by her mother.
Mrs. Webster was not entirely comfortable because she had left Billy at camp with only Marie for a companion. But he had insisted that he did not wish to join the Camp Fire expedition and would not allow even Vera to stay behind with him.
About four o’clock the entire party started back for camp. They wished to arrive in time for an early dinner and Marta Clark had first to be taken home.
Marta, as well as Peggy Webster, felt that she had not had so satisfactory a day as she had dreamed of. In the first place, Mrs. Burton had been so absorbed in the day’s arrangements that she had paid but little attention to her outside guests.
Then, Dan Webster had not been so agreeable as Marta expected him to be. Perhaps she had no right to have taken his interest a little for granted. His past kindness must have been due to sympathy caused by her accident, for Dan was undeniably one of the physically strong people to whom weakness made an appeal. Now, as she was a great deal better, she no longer required his physical assistance. So today he devoted the most of his time and attention to Sally Ashton. Sally, declaring that the grandeur and coldness of the great stone cliffs made her lonely and afraid, had appealed to Dan to be with her whenever he could. So, as Marta had made no such appeal, she was neglected.
However it was arranged for them that Dan should drive Marta home in one of the small carriages and that Peggy was to accompany them.
By his own request Howard Brent was allowed to make the fourth and to sit by Peggy.
“After dinner, tonight, when you have rested I should like to speak to you alone a few minutes,” Howard asked unexpectedly, just before their arrival at Sunrise camp. “Mrs. Burton said I might stay on until bedtime.”
For an hour before dinner Peggy remained alone in her tent, Bettina having seen that she was comfortable, had then gone away.
She was annoyed at finding herself so stiff and sore and for some reason so oddly depressed. For Peggy was not as accustomed to depression as most girls, being too fond of outdoor life and not given to introspection. But it was natural enough that the nervous shock, as well as the physical strain of her recent experience, should tell on her more as the hours passed than at the beginning.
Ralph and Terry Benton had gone home at once to their hotel on the return of the Camp Fire party to camp.
Through dinner Peggy sat quietly between her mother and Dan, not talking very much.
From the other end of the table Howard Brent watched her furtively whenever he had the opportunity. He was not happy over what he was intending to do, although from his point of view it was the only fair thing. Peggy ought not to be deceived by a pretense of friendship into giving her own sincere affection in return.
Several times the young man had thought of confiding in Bettina Graham and asking her to undertake the task of enlightening Peggy in his stead. Bettina, Howard realized, did not like Ralph Marshall any better than he did. But, afterwards, he had put this thought away from him, feeling that, as an actual witness to the wager between Ralph and Terry, his telling of the story would be more convincing.
As soon as they had gotten up from the table Peggy joined their only outside guest that evening. Together they walked away from the others.
But they did not go very far, as it was almost dark and turning a good deal cooler.
Peggy had put on a golden yellow sweater and, with her hair so closely bound about her head and her hands in her pockets, she had again the slightly boyish appearance characteristic of her.
But Howard Brent did not see this. To him she looked very young and sweet and ardent, with a lack both of vanity and self-consciousness which set her apart from a good many girls, but only made her more attractive to him.
“Can’t we find a place and sit down? You can’t be feeling fit enough for much of a walk,” Howard suggested.
At first Peggy shook her head, declaring she was all right, but later they went to a favorite spot near the foot of the hill and not far from the small lake. This was a favorite Camp Fire place, since it was near enough to have the rest of the Camp Fire party in sight and yet far enough away for confidences.
Peggy was not particularly interested in what Howard Brent had to say to her. He had seemed to be in the act of confiding something or other whenever they had met recently. But she had not considered deeply what the confidence could be, and really since he had asked her to give him a few minutes alone, she had not thought of the matter at all. She was much too tired.
But Peggy was always friendly and willing to listen when her friends wished to talk to her.
She sat now on an overturned log with Howard Brent on the ground beside her and facing her.
There was not much light except from the big camp fire many yards off. The pine trees and the hill made a rather gloomy background, and the stars were just struggling to show through the dusk.
“That was a pretty close shave you had this afternoon, Miss Peggy,” Howard began. It was awkward—this beginning of an awkward conversation, but as well one way as another.
Peggy nodded. “Let’s don’t talk about it tonight, if you don’t mind. It is silly, I know, but the more I think about the accident the more nervous I become. Why, I seem to be more afraid now than I actually was when I was hanging over that wretched precipice. I suppose, I was too paralyzed with terror then to realize what had happened. I just kept thinking that I was going to hold on to that tree and to Ralph, and that even if I died I wouldn’t let go. But now I keep having a vision of Ralph and myself sliding down forever and ever, with nothing to stop us. It would have been pretty awful, wouldn’t it?”
Peggy tried to laugh but the effort was faint-hearted.
Howard Brent frowned.
“It would have been about the most horrible thing I can imagine,” he answered gravely and with just the right amount of steadying sympathy in his voice. “As far as you are concerned I simply refuse to think of it. And, even though I don’t like Marshall, there isn’t any human being I dislike enough to care to contemplate such a fate overtaking him.”
Peggy’s lips parted and she flushed a little.
“Why don’t you like Ralph?” she asked quietly, but without any show of anger. “I have seen that you did not like him and I have been wondering about it lately. You see, Bettina Graham feels the same way and usually I have great respect for Bettina’s judgment. But I think she is mistaken about Ralph. You see, I have known him for several years, but not very intimately. He has been coming to our place in New Hampshire for a part of his holidays whenever he has liked, as his father and mine are great friends. Ralph and I have always been friendly enough, but he has never paid any particular attention to me until lately. I suppose I always seemed pretty young to him and a kind of tomboy. I really am one, you know, even if I am nearly grown. So, now, it seems awfully good of him to be interested in me, and I like him very much. That is why I think it is funny you and Bettina don’t like him. I know he wasn’t a good student at college and can’t make up his mind what kind of work he wishes to undertake. But there is time enough for him to find out later on.”
“Marshall is a cad,” Howard Brent interrupted. He had not intended to speak so abruptly, nor to show so much anger, but Peggy’s defense annoyed him.
However, she did not contradict him, nor reveal any of the petulance at being overruled, which most people would have expressed.
Instead, she looked at her companion with the clear, level glance he was beginning to know fairly well.
“That is a pretty hard thing to say about a human being, Mr. Brent. Sometimes I think it is perhaps the cruelest thing anybody can ever say about another,” she repeated slowly. “You see it really means everything. A man or a woman who is a cad is capable of almost any dishonor. And, worst of all, a cad does not even know when he is dishonorable.”
“Yes,” Howard Brent repeated. “I expect that is a pretty good definition of a cad. You may not think Marshall so bad as all that, but unfortunately I do.” He stopped a moment, his skin tanned from the Arizona winds and suns reddening faintly.
No matter how valiantly he had approached the moment of his confidence to Peggy Webster, the actual telling was to be no more agreeable then he had conceived it.
At this instant he hesitated.
“I think you owe it to Ralph to tell me why you think he is a cad,” she declared.
Peggy’s hands were clasped quietly in her lap and she was leaning forward, looking with earnestness at her companion. But she did not appear disturbed. She was sorry that he had so unfortunate a point of view about Ralph, but she did not feel in the least danger of being convinced by his opinion. For Peggy’s points of view were her own.
“Oh, it is pretty hard to tell,” Howard went on, “and you may not think I ought to tell you. Somehow it does seem impertinent of me to dare speak of it. But I just can’t stand your being influenced by Ralph Marshall’s attentions to you. The truth is about ten days or two weeks ago I overheard him making a bet with Terry Benton. He insisted that he could influence you to care for him as easily and in the same way that other girls do by paying you attention. He bet Benton a hundred dollars.”
Howard Brent’s face stiffened. The thing sounded even uglier in the telling than when it had occurred, and he had not intended that it should.
But Peggy merely stared at him incredulously.
“It must have been a joke!” she exclaimed.
Howard Brent shook his head.
“Well, even if it were a joke, it strikes me as being of a not very well-bred kind. I didn’t know how you might feel concerning it, but I felt that you ought to know. If you wish to continue friends with Marshall, now that you know, why of course it is not my affair. Perhaps girls are all alike!” Howard concluded.
Peggy was still looking at him, surprised, but not overwhelmed and apparently not entirely convinced.
“Somehow making a bet of that kind sounds so stupid,” she argued—not so much with her companion as with the impressions struggling for first place in her own mind. “It isn’t that I doubt what you have told me, Mr. Brent, only that I think you have made a mistake. Why should Ralph care enough one way or the other whether I like him? I am not a very important person.”
Howard Brent got up. “If you would like confirmation of my story you can speak to Terry Benton,” he announced, looking decidedly angry. “Personally, I am sorry I spoke to you of it.”
But Peggy had also gotten up and now put her hand on her companion’s arm.
“No; you are not sorry,” she returned. “Of course, I don’t want to speak of what you have told me to Terry Benton. But I would like to ask Ralph. Will you tell him to come over to see me in the morning, if he is well enough.”
And Peggy walked back with Howard Brent to say good night to her mother and aunt, serenely talking of other things.
Early the next morning Ralph Marshall walked over to the Sunrise Camp.
Without any comment or explanation Howard Brent had delivered, at the breakfast table an hour before, the message entrusted to him.
Except for a slight headache Ralph had entirely recovered from his injury, but he was fearful that Peggy had suffered more than she had confessed and, added to the fact that she had sent for him, was his own desire to know how she was.
For the time being the unfortunate conversation he had held with Terry Benton had entirely passed out of Ralph’s mind. He did think of it occasionally and he was ashamed of it. If Terry had ever reopened the subject, Ralph intended cutting him short by saying that the discussion had been a mistake, and that he had made a fool of himself. But, as Terry did not speak, Ralph had preferred to let the affair drop, not having sufficient courage to plunge boldly into the revival of what he wished to forget.
This morning he was really only interested in finding out that Peggy was all right, and he was deeply and profoundly grateful to her. It seemed almost impossible that any girl could have shown so much nerve and strength. If, in times past, he had liked girls better who were less athletic, whose muscles were less hard, who were altogether more “feminine” according to his preconceived ideas, Ralph had humor enough to realize that his ideal should have changed since the day before.
Peggy Webster had rested and was busy with her share of the morning Camp Fire work when Ralph came into camp. Her greeting of him was entirely cordial and friendly. There was nothing in her manner which might indicate any difference in her attitude from the evening before. She was interested to know that he had slept soundly and that his head was not troubling him. He had seen the hotel doctor who had advised him to pay no further attention to a slight wound which would quickly heal of itself.
It was also Peggy who proposed that they take a walk together after she had finished her tasks. Half an hour later they started off in apparently perfect accord.
Peggy had insisted, both to her mother and aunt, as well as to Ralph Marshall, that she had almost forgotten any discomfort she may have suffered the previous evening and was certainly not too tired for a walk. Indeed, she believed that, getting away from camp and so much talk of a disaster that had almost happened, would be good for her.
Therefore, Ralph Marshall was naturally unprepared for what inevitably followed.
It was not that Peggy was acting to deceive him or any one else. She had almost tragically little ability for playing any part that was not essentially straightforward and truthful. But, after she had gone to bed, in thinking over what Howard Brent had told her, Peggy had become more convinced than ever that he had in some way made a mistake. She simply did not believe that Ralph Marshall could have made a wager in regard to winning her friendship. Whatever weaknesses of character he might possess, he had always been well bred.
Perhaps Peggy had old-fashioned ideas. There was a kind of simplicity about her which made her seem younger than she actually was. But she had gotten some of these ideas from her father, who had the old-time courtesy and respect for women, in spite of the fact that he belonged to the new generation. Peggy knew that he felt a man should never talk of a woman with other men in any way that would reflect upon her, however little he might respect or like the woman.
Just for a moment it flashed through Peggy’s mind to reflect how angry her father would be, if he ever learned that two young men had actually made a bet concerning her—and one through which her dignity and self-respect must suffer. Then she put the thought away from her as unworthy of consideration.
During the first part of their walk, Peggy made no reference to the reason she had had for having asked Ralph to come over to see her so soon after their farewell the evening before. Indeed, she had almost forgotten the reason herself, although always the consciousness of it was lurking at the back of her brain.
But she and Ralph enjoyed walking together. There never was a lovelier place than among these tall pine forests with the trails cut between the trees, and leading into unexpected and open vistas.
Ralph had a charming voice and, when he and Peggy were walking in single file and not talking, he sang for her amusement. He seemed to have been to every light opera that had been produced in the last five years, and knew at least one or two songs from each of them. As Peggy lived in the country and had heard but few, she was greatly entertained.
It was Ralph who finally suggested that they rest.
But it was Peggy who chose the somewhat extraordinary place.
There was a particularly large pine tree at the edge of an open space. It had long branches which swung out, like comfortable hammocks, not far above the ground.
Peggy climbed into one of them and sat with her feet curled up under her in an odd fashion, with her back resting against the trunk of the tree.
Ralph sat nearer the end so that his weight bore the branch down almost to the ground.
“Peggy, you look like a tree nymph, or an elf, or whatever wood spirit is supposed to inhabit a tree. I am not well up on tree-ology, or anything else,” Ralph said good humoredly. “But you are so dark and your eyes and hair and skin are so brown. Besides somehow you have an altogether, outdoor look about you.”
Peggy laughed. “Do you mean that for a compliment, Ralph? Because, of course, I understand that translated your speech simply means I am tanned until I look like an Indian, or something else not completely civilised.”
Then Peggy’s expression changed and she actually flushed scarlet.
“There is something I want to ask you, Ralph, though now that I have the chance I had much rather not. You see, I realize that it isn’t true, but I owe it to you to be able to tell Howard Brent so. You didn’t make a bet with Terry Benton about me, did you? You didn’t say you would win my friendship by being attentive to me, just for the sake of a wager? My friendship really isn’t valuable enough, and in any case you could have had it without taking that much trouble.”
Because Ralph did not answer at once, Peggy bent over toward him from her higher place.
“I’m sorry, Ralph; naturally you are angry with me; but I didn’t believe the story for a minute.”
Ralph returned the girl’s look steadily. The expression of his face had never been stronger. His old expression of laughing good nature and plastic content with himself and circumstances at least temporarily disappeared.
“It is true though, Peggy,” he answered, “although I would give a good deal to be able to tell you it was not.”
In spite of his reply, Peggy continued to look puzzled.
“But I can’t understand any reason,” she protested.
Ralph shook his head. “Of course you can’t, and there isn’t any. In an idiotic moment I simply said a very stupid thing to Terry Benton without realizing just how ugly and ill-mannered it was. Ever since I have been trying my best to forget I ever said it. You are the one person in the world whom I would rather not have brought into such a discussion, and to find that out is a part of my punishment. I wonder if you can believe, Peggy, how sorry and ashamed I am, and have been ever since I made a foolish wager which I regretted the moment after I had gotten into it. You are such a clean, straightforward person, Peggy, I don’t suppose you can even imagine how a human being can do an ugly thing and yet not be altogether horrid.”
Ralph was talking like a boy, forgetting that he was a number of years older than his companion.
But Peggy’s eyes had changed their expression and were no longer puzzled.
“I might, be willing to accept your point of view, Ralph, if, after you had made the wager in which I was to be a victim to your vanity, you had paid no attention to me. But I can’t forget that it was afterwards you began being agreeable to me, asking me to take walks and to dance with you. If you did not care about winning your wager, why did you not continue to politely ignore me, as you had always done? Well you were successful enough, because I did like you very much until now.”
Peggy’s cheeks were scarlet and yet she could be nothing but truthful.
“I have a dreadful temper and I am so angry with you now, I feel as if I never wish to see or speak to you again. Please let me go back to camp alone.”
Ralph shook his head.
“No, I won’t do that,” he answered quietly, “but I will not trouble you along the way—not even by asking your forgiveness. Some day, perhaps, I may be able to prove to you how truly sorry I am. Now I can’t even pretend that I have any more right to your friendship.”
A few days later the Camp Fire guardian drove over to the hotel nearby, accompanied only by Mr. Jefferson Simpson.
Bettina had offered to go with her, but she had announced that she preferred going alone.
This was curious because the one thing Mrs. Burton had made a point of, ever since the arrival of her Camp Fire party in Arizona, was that she be allowed to remain as inconspicuous as possible. And, if she wished nobody to find out who she was, she had certainly to remain in obscurity.
To appear at a fashionable hotel filled with Eastern tourists was to proclaim her identity, since the greater number of them would assuredly be familiar with her appearance, knowing her by reputation if not having actually seen her act.
But Mrs. Burton was too worried to consider small, personal annoyances. Then she had a fashion of acting suddenly, having no very great patience with the things that displeased her.
For the last few days the atmosphere of the Sunrise camp had not been an agreeable one. However, the trouble was not with the Camp Fire girls, they being only incidental; the difficulty was a family one, which is of all varieties the most trying. And Mrs. Burton had been away from her own family so much of the time that she had almost forgotten how wrought up one can become over comparatively small matters, when they affect one’s own people.
In the first place, for several days Peggy Webster had been entirely unlike herself, without giving the least reason for her sudden change from her natural buoyancy to a condition of gravity and depression.
More annoying, she insisted that she was not depressed. When Mrs. Burton and Bettina frankly told her that they did not believe her assertion; nevertheless she would take neither one of them into her confidence.
Afterwards when Mrs. Burton insisted that Peggy was not well and must have suffered from her fall and so should see a doctor, Peggy flatly declined to see one. However, Peggy’s refusal did not affect her aunt.
One of the errands which brought her to the hotel was to call upon the hotel physician and make an appointment with him to come over to their camp.
Personally, Mrs. Burton was hurt by Peggy’s behavior. She cared for Peggy more than for anybody in the world, except her husband and sister and perhaps her beloved girlhood friend, Betty Graham.
If anything troubled Peggy, either mentally or physically, her aunt did not understand why she would not confide in her. Ordinarily they understood each other perfectly, so that even when they disagreed and had small fallings out, their estrangements never lasted more than an hour or so.
But the expression in her niece’s face had recently troubled Polly Burton. She could not endure the thought of Peggy being ill or unhappy. If there was anything in the world that Peggy desired, which she could possibly obtain for her, she would have traveled to the end of the world to secure it. And this Peggy knew. Nevertheless she had been going about camp for the last few days doing her ordinary tasks, walking and driving with the other girls, but always with an expression that was not Peggy’s.
Instead of her usual, frank, clear look of happiness and good comradeship, she had a hurt, almost an abashed expression, as if life had somehow suddenly made her feel less sure of its justice and sincerity.
Yet, there was no trouble between Peggy and any one of the Camp Fire girls. Besides being more generally popular than any other member of the group, Bettina had made every effort to discover if a difficulty had arisen and could find no trace of one.
Over the other family matter which was disturbing both her mother and aunt, Peggy could not be worrying, because she had scolded and laughed at both of them, insisting that they were making too much of nothing.
Billy’s affairs were always involved in more or less mystery, and Billy adored mystery. The fact that he was disappearing every day and refusing to tell any one where he went, or what he was doing, did not make any particular impression upon his sister. Peggy really believed that Billy on most occasions behaved in this fashion in order to create an excitement of which he could be the center.
However, this time at least, his mother and aunt were under a different impression. Mrs. Webster was nearly sick with annoyance and anxiety over Billy’s obstinacy and what she considered his reckless behavior.
After being an invalid for several months and refusing to exert himself in order to regain his strength, he had suddenly announced that he was entirely well and able to do whatever he wished. At present this consisted on going away from Sunrise camp early each morning and often not returning until bedtime. When he did come in he was usually exhausted, but he must have recovered during the night, since he was able to start out again next day.