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:
“All people awake, open your eyes, arise,
Become children of light, vigorous, active, sprightly;
Hasten clouds from the four world quarters,
Come snow in plenty, that water may abound when summer appears,
Come ice and cover the fields, that after planting they may yield abundantly,
Let all hearts be glad.”
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
