The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail

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 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.”