Their way wound through a forest over a wood road, very rough and barely
wide enough for the passage of a cart. The road was solemn and still,
except where, here and there, an open space allowed the sunlight to play
upon a few scattered wild flowers and brighten the sombre tints of the
undergrowth.

After a ride which seemed a long one to the ladies, who wished they had
attired themselves in walking-costume, the road and the forest suddenly
came to an end, and before them stretched out the waters of a small lake.
Camp Rob was not far from the head of the lake, and for some distance
above and below the forest stood back from the water's edge. In the shade
of a great oak tree there stood a small log-house, rude enough to look at,
but moderately comfortable within, and from this house to the shore a wide
space was cleared of bushes and undergrowth.

The lake was narrow in proportion to its length, which was about two
miles, and on the other side the forest looked like a solid wall of green
reflected in the water beneath. Even Mrs. Archibald, whose aching back
began to have an effect upon her disposition, was delighted with the
beauty of the scene, which delight endured until she had descended from
her horse and entered the log-cabin in which she was to dwell for a time.

It is not necessary to describe the house, nor is it necessary to dive
into the depths of Mrs. Archibald's mind as she gazed about her, passing
silently from room to room of the little house. She was a good woman, and
she had made up her mind that she would not be a millstone around the
necks of her companions. Many people have been happy in camps, and,
indeed, camp-life has become one of the features of our higher
civilization, and this, from what she had heard, must be a camp above the
common. So, think what she might, she determined to make no open
complaint. If it were possible for her to be happy here, she would be
happy.

As for Margery, no determination was needed in her case. Everything was
better than she had expected to find it. The cabin, with the bark on
almost everything, even the furniture, was just what a house in the woods
ought to be; and when she entered the little studio, which was nearer
allied to the original forest than any other part of the house, she
declared that that must be her room, and that living there she would feel
almost like a dryad in an oak.

"You've camped out before?" said Phil Matlack to Mr. Archibald, as he was
taking a survey of the scene.

"Oh yes," said the other, "I've been out a few days at a time with
fishing-parties, but we never had such a fine camp as this--so well
located and such good accommodations."

"You are a fisherman, then?" said the guide.

"Yes. I am very fond of it. I've fished ever since I was a boy, and know a
good deal about bait, in spite of what Mr. Sadler said."

"I had an idea of that sort," remarked Phil, "but it ain't no use to
contradict Peter. It helps keep up his spirits for him to think he can
read the characters of people just as quick as he can aim a rifle. And
it's a mighty important thing to keep Peter's spirits up. If Peter's
spirits was to go down, things round here would flatten out worse than a
rotten punkin when it's dropped."

It did not take long to establish the new-comers in their woodland
quarters. The tent for the two men, which had arrived in the morning, was
pitched not far from the cabin, and then Matlack and Martin went to work
to prepare supper. The dining-room in pleasant weather was the small space
in front of the house, where there was a table made of a wide board
supported by stakes, with a low and narrow board on each side, also
resting on stakes, and forming seats.

The supper was a better one and better served than any of the party had
expected. The camp outfit included table-cloths, and even napkins.

"To-morrow," said Matlack, as he brought a dish of hot and savory broiled
ham, "after Mr. Archibald gets to work, we'll have some fish."

Mrs. Archibald had been a little fearful that under these primitive
conditions the two men might expect to sit at the table with them, but she
need have had no such fears. Matlack and Martin cooked and waited with a
skill and deftness which would have surprised any one who did not reflect
that this was as much their business as hunting or woodcraft.

After supper a camp-fire was built at a safe distance from the house, for
although the evening air was but slightly cool, a camp without a camp-fire
would not be a camp. The party ranged themselves around it, Mrs. Archibald
on a rug brought from the cabin, and her husband and Margery on the
ground. Mr. Archibald lighted his pipe, the fire lighted the trees and the
lake, and joy inexpressible lighted the heart of Margery.

"If I could smoke a pipe," said she, "and get Mr. Matlack to come here and
tell me how he killed a man, I should be perfectly happy."

That night Mrs. Archibald lay awake on her straw mattress. Absolute
darkness was about her, but through the open window she could see, over
the tops of the trees on the other side of the lake, one little star.

"If I could get any comfort out of that little star," thought the good
lady, "I would do it; but I can't do it, and there is nothing else to
comfort me."

On the other side of the room, on another straw mattress, she could hear
her husband breathing steadily. Then, upon the bare boards of the floor,
which were but a few inches below her little cot-bed, she thought she
heard the patter of small feet. A squirrel, perhaps, or, horrible to think
of, it might be a rat. She was sure rats would eat straw beds, and her
first impulse was to wake Mr. Archibald; but she hesitated, he was
sleeping so soundly. Still she listened, and now she became almost certain
that what she heard was not the patter of small feet; it sounded more like
something soft which was dragging itself over the floor--possibly a snake.
This idea was simply awful, and she sat up in bed. Still she did not call
Mr. Archibald, for should he suddenly spring on the floor, he would be in
more danger from the snake than she was.

She listened and she listened, but she heard nothing more, and then her
reason began to assure her that a snake's movements on a bare floor would
be absolutely noiseless; but in a moment all thoughts of serpents were
driven from her head. Outside of the cabin she heard a sound that could be
nothing less than the footsteps of some living creature--a wild beast,
perhaps a panther. The door was shut and fastened, but the window was
open. To call Mr. Archibald and tell him a wild beast was walking outside
the house would be positively wicked. Half-awakened, he would probably
rush out of the door to see what it was. What could she do? For an instant
she thought of lighting a candle and standing it in the window. She knew
that wild beasts were afraid of fire, and she did not believe that even a
panther would dare jump over a lighted candle. But if she struck a match
and got up, she would waken her husband; and, besides, if the wind, of
which she could feel a puff every now and then, did not blow out the
candle, it might blow it over and set fire to the cabin.

She heard the footsteps no more, and lay down again, but not to sleep. The
wind seemed to be rising, and made a wild, unearthly sound as it surged
through the trees which surrounded and imprisoned her, and shut her out
from the world in which she was born and in which she ought to live. There
was a far-away sound which came to her ears once, twice, thrice, and which
might have been the call of some ghostly bird or the war-whoop of an
Indian. At last she drew the covering over her head, determined that, so
long as she could not see, she would not hear.

"A wedding-journey!" she said to herself, and the idea, coupled with the
sense of her present grewsome and doleful condition, was so truly absurd
and ridiculous that she could not restrain a melancholy laugh.

"What is the matter, my dear?" exclaimed Mr. Archibald, suddenly turning
over in his bed. "Are you choking? Is the room too close? Shall I open the
door?"

"No, indeed," she said, "for that was a laugh you heard. I couldn't help
laughing at the thought that there should be two such idiots in the world
as you and myself."

"It is idiotic, isn't it?" said Mr. Archibald. "It is gloriously idiotic,
and it will do us both a world of good. It is such a complete and perfect
change that I don't wonder you laugh." Then he laughed himself, clearly
and loudly, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.

Mrs. Archibald felt certain that she would not sleep another wink that
night, but she did sleep seven hours and a half, and was awakened by
Margery singing outside her window.




CHAPTER VI

CAMP ROY


No thoughts of idiocy crossed the minds of any of the camping party during
their first breakfast under the great oak-tree. The air, the sunlight, the
rippling waters of the lake, the white clouds in the blue sky, the great
trunks of the trees, the rustling of the leaves, the songs of the birds,
the hum of insects, the brightness of everything, their wonderful
appetites--the sense of all these things more than filled their minds.

For the greater part of that day Mr. Archibald fished, sometimes in a
stream which ran into the head of the lake about a quarter of a mile above
the camp, and sometimes on the shores of the lake itself. Margery
sketched; her night in the studio had filled her with dreams of art, and
she had discovered in a corner a portable easel made of hickory sticks
with the bark on, and she had tucked some drawing materials into one of
her bags.

Mrs. Archibald was a little tired with her journey of the day before, and
contented herself with sitting in the shade in pleasant places, occupied
with some needle-work she had brought with her, and trying to discipline
her mind to habits of happiness in camp. This was not very difficult
during the first part of this beautiful day, but towards the end of the
afternoon she began to think less of the joys of a free life in the heart
of nature and more of the pleasure of putting on her bonnet and going out
to make some calls upon her friends. In this state of mind it pleased her
to see Phil Matlack coming towards her.

"Would you like a cup of tea, ma'am?" said he.

"No, thank you," she answered. "It would seem rather odd to have afternoon
tea in the woods, and I really don't care for it."

"We can have 'most anything in the woods, ma'am," said Matlack, "that we
can have anywhere else, providin' you don't mind what sort of fashion you
have it in. I thought it might be sort of comfortin' to you to have a cup
of tea. I've noticed that in most campin' parties of the family order
there's generally one or two of them that's lonesome the first day; and
the fact is I don't count on anything particular bein' done on the first
day in camp, except when the party is regular hunters or fishermen. It's
just as well for some of them to sit round on the first day and let things
soak into them, provided it isn't rain, and the next day they will have a
more natural feelin' about what they really want to do. Now I expect you
will be off on some sort of a tramp to-morrow, ma'am, or else be out in
the boat; and as for that young lady, she's not goin' to sketch no more
after to-day. She's got young Martin out in the boat, restin' on his oars,
while she's puttin' him into her picture. She's rubbed him out so often
that I expect he'll fall asleep and tumble overboard, or else drop one of
his oars."

"Mr. Matlack," said Mrs. Archibald, "will you please sit down a moment? I
want to ask you something."

"Certainly, ma'am," said he, and forthwith seated himself on a log near
by, picking up a stick as he did so, and beginning to shave the bark from
it with his pocket-knife.

"Do you know," said she, "if there are panthers in these woods?"

Matlack looked up at her quickly. "I expect you heard them walkin' about
your cabin last night," said he; "and not only panthers, but most likely a
bear or two, and snakes rustlin' in the leaves; and, for all I know, coons
or 'possums climbin' in and out of the window."

"Oh, nothing so bad as that," she replied. "I only thought--"

"Excuse me, ma'am," he interrupted. "I didn't mean that you heard all
those things, but most likely a part of them. Hardly any family parties
goes into camp that some of them don't hear wild beasts the first night.
But they never come no more. Them kind of wild beasts I call
first-nighters, and they're about the worst kind we've got, because they
really do hurt people by scratchin' and clawin' at their nerves, whereas
the real wild beasts in these parts--and they're mighty scarce, and never
come near camp--don't hurt nobody."

"I am glad to hear it," said she. "But what on earth can be keeping Mr.
Archibald? When he started out after dinner he said he would be back very
soon."

"Oh, he's got the fever, ma'am," said Matlack.

"Fever!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, dropping her work in her lap.

"Oh, don't be frightened," said he; "it is only the fishin' fever. It
don't hurt anybody; it only keeps the meals waitin'. You see, we are
pretty nigh the first people out this year, and the fish bite lively. Are
you fond of fishin', ma'am?"

"No, indeed," said she; "I dislike it. I think it is cruel and slimy and
generally unpleasant."

"I expect you'll spend most of your time in the boat," suggested Matlack.
"Your husband rows, don't he?"

"He doesn't row me," said Mrs. Archibald, with earnestness. "I never go
out in a boat except with a regular boatman. I suppose you have a larger
boat than the one that young man is in? I can see it from here, and it
looks very small."

"No, ma'am," said Matlack; "that's the only one we've got. And now I guess
I'll go see about supper. This has been a lazy day for us, but we always
do calc'late on a lazy day to begin with."

"It strikes me," said Matlack to himself, as he walked away, "that this
here camp will come to an end pretty soon. The man and the young woman
could stand it for a couple of weeks, but there's nothing here for the old
lady, and it can't be long before she'll have us all out of the woods
again."

"You can come in," called Margery, about ten minutes after this
conversation; and young Martin, who had not the least idea of going to
sleep in the boat, dipped his oars in the water and rowed ashore, pulled
the boat up on the beach, and then advanced to the spot where Margery was
preparing to put away her drawing materials.

"Would you mind letting me see your sketch?" said he.

"Oh no," said she; "but you'll see it isn't very much like the scene
itself. When I make a drawing from nature I never copy everything I see
just as if I were making a photograph. I suppose you think I ought to draw
the boat just as it is, but I always put something of my own in my
pictures. And that, you see, is a different kind of a boat from the one
you were in. It is something like Venetian boats."

"It isn't like anything in this part of the world, that is true," said the
young man, as he held the drawing in his hand; "and if it had been more
like a gondola it would not have suited the scene. I think you have caught
the spirit of the landscape very well; but if you don't object to a little
criticism, I should say that the shore over there is too near the
foreground. It seems to me that the picture wants atmosphere; that would
help the distance very much."

"Do you draw?" asked Margery, in surprise.

"I used to be very fond of sketching," said he. "I stayed at Sadler's a
good part of the last winter, and when I wasn't out hunting I made a good
many drawings of winter scenes. I would be glad to show them to you when
we go back."

"Well," said she, "if I had known you were an artist I would not have
asked you to go out there and sit as a model."

"Oh, I am not an artist," replied Martin; "I only draw, that's all. But if
you make any more water sketches and would like me to put some ducks or
any other kind of wild-fowl in the foreground I will be glad to do it for
you. I have made a specialty of natural-history drawings. Don't bother
yourself about that easel; I'll carry up your things for you."

About half-way to the cabin Margery suddenly stopped and turned round
towards the young man, who was following her. "How did you come to be a
guide?" she asked.

He smiled. "That's because I was born a naturalist and a sportsman. I went
into business when I finished my education, but I couldn't stand that, and
as I couldn't afford to become a gentleman sportsman, I came here as a
guide. I'm getting a lot of experience in this sort of life, and when I've
saved money enough I'm going on an exploring expedition, most likely to
Central America. That's the kind of life that will suit me."

"And write a book about it?" asked Margery.

"Most likely," said he.

That night, after supper, Margery remarked: "Our two guides are American
citizens, and I don't see why they can't eat at the table with us instead
of waiting until we have finished. We are all free and equal in the
woods."

"Margery Dearborn!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald. "What are you talking
about?"

She was going to say that if there were one straw more needed to break her
back, that straw would be the sight of the two guides sitting at the table
with them, but she restrained herself. She did not want Mr. Archibald to
know anything about the condition of her back.

"So long as they don't want to do it, and don't do it," said she, "pray
don't let us say anything about it. Let's try to make things as pleasant
as we can."

Mr. Archibald was lighting his pipe, and when he was sure the tobacco was
sufficiently ignited he took the pipe from his mouth and turned towards
his wife.

"Harriet," said he, "you have been too much alone to-day. I don't know
what I shall do to-morrow; but whatever it is, I am going to take you with
me."

"Of course that depends on what it is you do," she answered. "But I will
try to do everything I can."

Mr. Archibald heaved a little sigh, which was not noticed by any one,
because it sounded like a puff.

"I am afraid," he thought, "that this camping business is not going to
last very much longer, and we shall be obliged to make the rest of our
wedding-journey in a different style."

The next morning, when Mr. Archibald went out of his cabin door, he looked
over the lake and saw a bird suddenly swoop down upon the water, breaking
the smooth surface into sparkles of silver, and then rise again, a little
silvery fish glittering in its claws.

"Beautifully done!" said he. "A splendid stroke!" And then turning, he
looked up the lake, and not far from the water's edge he saw Margery
walking with Mr. Clyde, while Mr. Raybold followed a little in the rear.

"Harriet," he cried, quickly stepping into the cabin again, "look out
here! What is the meaning of this?"

Mrs. Archibald was dressed, and came out. When she saw the trio
approaching them, she was not so much surprised as was her husband.

"I don't know the meaning of anything that happens in these woods," she
said; "but if a lot of people have come from the hotel with those young
men I cannot say I am sorry."

"Come," said her husband, "we must look into this."

In two minutes the Archibalds had met the new-comers, who advanced with
outstretched hands, as if they had been old friends. Mr. Archibald, not
without some mental disquietude at this intrusion upon the woodland
privacy of his party, was about to begin a series of questions, when he
was forestalled by Margery.

"Oh, Uncle Archibald and Aunt Harriet!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Clyde and Mr.
Raybold have come out here to camp. Their camp is right next to ours, and
it is called Camp Roy. You see, some years ago there was a large camping
party came here, and they called the place Camp Rob Roy, but it was
afterwards divided, and one part called Camp Rob and the other Camp Roy."

"Indeed!" interrupted Mr. Archibald. "Mr. Sadler did not tell us that ours
was only half a camp with only half a name."

"I don't suppose he thought of it," said Margery. "And the line between
the two camps is just three hundred feet above our cabin. I don't suppose
anybody ever measures it off, but there it is; and Mr. Clyde and Mr.
Raybold have taken Camp Roy, which hasn't any house on it. They started
before daybreak this morning, and brought a tent along with them, which
they have pitched just back of that little peninsula; and they haven't any
guide, because they want to attend to their own cooking and everything,
and the man who brought the tent and other things has gone back. They are
going to live there just like real backwoodsmen, and they have a boat of
their own, which is to be brought up from the bottom of the lake
somewhere--I mean from the lower end of the lake. And, Aunt Harriet, may I
speak to you a moment?"

With this the young woman drew Mrs. Archibald aside, and in a low voice
asked if she thought it would be out of the way to invite the two young
men to take breakfast with them, as it was not likely they had all their
cooking things in order so early.

Five people sat down to breakfast under the great oak-tree, and it was a
lively meal. Mr. Archibald's mental disquiet, in which were now apparent
some elements of resentment, had not subsided, but the state of his mind
did not show itself in his demeanor, and he could not help feeling pleased
to see that his wife was in better spirits. He had always known that she
liked company.

After breakfast he took Matlack aside. "I don't understand this business,"
said he. "When I hired this camp I supposed we were to have it to
ourselves; but if there are other camps jammed close against it we may be
in the midst of a great public picnic before a week is out."

"Oh, that camp over there isn't much of a camp," replied the guide. "The
fact is, it is only the tail end of a camp, and I don't suppose Peter
Sadler thought anybody would be likely to take it just now, and so didn't
think it worth while to speak of it. Of course it's jammed up against this
one, as you say; but then the people in one camp haven't the right to
cross the line into another camp if the people in the other camp don't
want them to."

"Line!" said Mr. Archibald. "It is absurd to think of lines in a place
like this. And I have no intention of making myself disagreeable by
ordering people off my premises. But I would like to know if there is
another camp three hundred feet on this side of our cabin, or three
hundred feet back of it."

"No, sir," said Matlack, speaking promptly; "there isn't another camp
between this and the lower end of the lake. There's a big one there, and
it's taken; but the people aren't coming until next month."

"If a larger party had taken Camp Roy," said Mr. Archibald to his wife a
little later, "I should not mind it so much. But two young men! I do not
like it."




CHAPTER VII

A STRANGER


It was at the close of a pleasant afternoon four days after the arrival of
the young men at Camp Roy, and Mrs. Archibald was seated on a camp-stool
near the edge of the lake intently fishing. By her side stood Phil
Matlack, who had volunteered to interpose himself between her and all the
disagreeable adjuncts of angling. He put the bait upon her hook, he told
her when her cork was bobbing sufficiently to justify a jerk, and when she
caught a little fish he took it off the hook. Fishing in this pleasant
wise had become very agreeable to the good lady, and she found pleasures
in camp life which she had not anticipated. Her husband was in a boat some
distance out on the lake, and he was also fishing, but she did not care
for that style of sport; the fish were too big and the boat too small.

A little farther down the lake Martin Sanders sat busily engaged in
putting some water-fowl into the foreground of Margery's sketch. A
critical observer might have noticed that he had also made a number of
changes in said sketch, all of which added greatly to its merits as a
picture of woodland scenery. At a little distance Margery was sitting at
her easel making a sketch of Martin as an artist at work in the woods. The
two young men had gone off with their guns, not perhaps because they
expected to find any legitimate game at that season, but hoping to secure
some ornithological specimens, or to get a shot at some minor quadrupeds
unprotected by law. Another reason for their expedition could probably
have been found in some strong hints given by Mr. Archibald that it was
unwise for them to be hanging around the camps and taking no advantage of
the opportunities for sport offered by the beautiful weather and the
forest.

It was not long before Margery became convinced that the sketch on which
she was working did not resemble her model, nor did it very much resemble
an artist at work in the woods.

"It looks a good deal more like a cobbler mending shoes," she said to
herself, "and I'll keep it for that. Some day I will put a bench under him
and a shoe in his hand instead of a sketch." With that she rose, and went
to see how Martin was getting on. "I think," she said, "those dark ducks
improve the picture very much. They throw the other things back." Then she
stopped, went to one side, and gazed out over the lake. "I wonder," she
said, "if there is really any fun in fishing. Uncle Archibald has been out
in that boat for more than two hours, and he has fished almost every day
since he's been here. I should think he would get tired of it."

"Oh no," said Martin, looking up with animation. "If you know how to fish,
and there is good sport, you never get tired of it."

"I know how to fish," said Margery, "and I do not care about it at all."

"You know how to fish?" said Martin. "Can you make a cast with a fly?"

"I never tried that," said she. "But I have fished as Aunt Harriet does,
and it is easy as can be."

"Oh," said he, "you don't know anything about fishing unless you have
fished with a fly. That is the only real sport. It is as exciting as a
battle. If you would let me teach you how to throw a fly, I am sure you
would never find fishing tiresome, and these woods would be like a new
world to you."

"Why don't you do it yourself, then?" she asked.

"Because I am paid to do other things," he replied. "We are not sent here
simply to enjoy ourselves, though I must say that I--" And then he
suddenly stopped. "I wish you would let me teach you fly-fishing. I know
you would like it."

Margery looked at the eager face turned towards her, and then she gazed
out over the water.

"Perhaps I might like it," she said. "But it wouldn't be necessary for you
to take that trouble. Uncle Archibald has two or three times asked me to
go out with him, and of course he would teach me how to fish as he does.
Isn't that somebody calling you?"

"Yes," said Martin, rising; "it's Phil. I suppose it's nearly
supper-time."

As they walked towards the camp, Margery in front, and Martin behind her
carrying the drawing-materials and the easel, Margery suddenly turned.

[Illustration: "'THEY THROW THE OTHER THINGS BACK'"]

"It was very good of you to offer to teach me to fish with flies," she
said, "and perhaps, if Uncle Archibald doesn't want to be bothered, I may
get you to show me how to do it."

The young man's face brightened, and he was about to express his pleasure
with considerable warmth; but he checked himself, and merely remarked that
whenever she was ready he would provide a rod and flies and show her how
to use them.

Mrs. Archibald had gone into the cabin, and Margery went up to Matlack,
who was on his way to the little tent in which the camp cooking was done.

"Did Mrs. Archibald tell you," said she, "that we have invited Mr. Clyde
and Mr. Raybold to supper to-night?"

The guide stopped and smiled. "She told me," said he, "but I don't know
that it was altogether necessary."

"I suppose you mean," said Margery, "that they are here so much; but I
don't wonder; they must do awfully poor cooking for themselves. I don't
suppose they will bring anything back that is good to eat."

"Not at this time of year," said he, "but I shall be satisfied if they
bring themselves home."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Margery, quickly.

"Well," said Matlack, "I don't doubt the bicycle fellow will always come
back all right, but I'm afeard about the other one. That bicycle chap
don't know no more about a gun than he does about makin' bread, and I
wouldn't go out huntin' with him for a hundred dollars. He's just as
likely to take a crack at his pardner's head as at anything else that's
movin' in the woods."

"That is dreadful!" exclaimed Margery.

"Yes, it is," returned the guide; "and if I had charge of their camp he
wouldn't go out with a gun again. But it will be all right in a day or
two. Peter will settle that."

"Mr. Sadler, do you mean?" asked Margery. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He's got everything to do with it," said Matlack. "He's got everything to
do with everything in this part of the country. He's got his laws, and he
sees to it that people stand by them. One of his rules is that people who
don't know how to use guns sha'n't shoot in his camps."

"But how can he know about the people out here in the woods?" asked
Margery.

"I tell you, miss," said Matlack, speaking slowly and decisively, "Peter
Sadler's ways of knowing things is like gas--the kind you burn, I mean. I
was a-visitin' once in a city house, and slept in a room on the top floor,
and there was a leak in the pipe in the cellar, and that gas just went
over the whole house, into every room and closet, and even under the beds,
and I've often thought that that was just like Peter's way of doin' things
and knowin' things. You take my word for it, that bicycle-man won't go out
huntin' many more days, even if he don't shoot his pardner fust."

"He won't go to-morrow," thought Margery; and then she said to Matlack: "I
think we ought to know Mr. Sadler's rules. Has he any more of them?"

"Oh, they ain't very many," said Matlack. "But there's one I think of now,
and that is that no woman shall go out in a boat by herself on this
lake."

"That is simply horrid!" exclaimed Margery. "Women can row as well as
men."

"I don't say they can't," said Matlack. "I'm only tellin' you what Peter's
rules are, and that's one of them."

Margery made no reply, but walked away, her head thrown back a little more
than was usual with her.

"I've got to keep my eye on her," said Matlack to himself, as he went to
the cabin; "she's never been broke to no harness."

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Raybold did not shoot Mr. Clyde, nor did he shoot anything else. Mr.
Clyde did shoot a bird, but it fell into the water at a place where the
shore was very marshy, and it was impossible for him to get it. He thought
it was a heron, or a bittern, or perhaps a fish-hawk, but whatever it was,
both ladies said that it was a great pity to kill it, as it was not good
to eat, and must have been very happy in its life in the beautiful
forest.

"It is very cruel to shoot them when they are not strictly game," said Mr.
Clyde, "and I don't believe I will do it. If I had the things to stuff
them with, that would be different, but I haven't. I believe fishing is
just as much fun, and more sensible."

"I do not!" exclaimed Mr. Raybold. "I hold that hunting is a manly art,
and that a forester's life is as bold and free to him as it is to the
birds in the air. I believe I have the blood of a hunter in me. My voice
is for the woods."

"I expect you will change your voice," thought Margery, "when Mr. Sadler
takes your gun away from you." But she did not say so.

Mr. Archibald stood with his hands in his pockets reflecting. He had hoped
that these two young men were inveterate hunters, and that they would
spend their days in long tramps. He did not at all approve of their
fishing. Fishing could be done anywhere--here, for instance, right at this
very door.

Supper was over, and the five inhabitants of Camps Rob and Roy had seated
themselves around the fire which Martin had carefully built, keeping in
view a cheery blaze without too much heat. Pipes had been filled and
preparations made for the usual evening smoke and talk, when a man was
seen emerging from the woods at the point where the road opened into the
clearing about the camp. It was still light, for these hungry campers
supped early, and the man could be distinctly seen as he approached, and
it was plain that he was not a messenger from Sadler's.

He was rather a large man, dressed in black, and wearing a felt hat with a
wide, straight brim. Hanging by a strap from his shoulder was a small
leather bag, and in his hand he carried a closed umbrella. Advancing
towards the fire, he took off his hat, bowed, and smiled. He wore no
beard, his face was round and plump, and his smile was pleasant.

"Good-evening, ladies and gentlemen," said he, and his voice was as
pleasant as his smile.

"Good-evening," said Mr. Archibald, and then for a moment there was a
pause.

"I presume," said the new-comer, looking about him, "that this is a
camp."

"It is a camp," said Mr. Archibald.

"The fact is so obvious," said the man in black, "that it was really
unnecessary for me to allude to it. May I ask to be allowed to sit down
for a few moments? I am fatigued."

At this juncture Phil Matlack arrived on the scene. "Well, sir," said he,
"have you any business with anybody here? Who do you wish to see?"

"I have no business," said the other, "and--"

"And you are a stranger to everybody here?" interrupted Matlack.

"Yes, but I hope--"

"Now then," said the guide, quickly, "I've got to ask you to move on. This
is one of Peter Sadler's camps, and he has strict rules against strangers
stoppin' in any of them. If you've lost your way, I'll tell you that this
road, if you don't turn to the right or the left, will take you straight
to Sadler's, and there's time enough for you to get there before dark."

"Mr. Matlack," exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, who had risen to her feet, "I
want to speak to you! It's a shame," she said, when the guide had
approached her, "to send that man away without even giving him a chance to
rest himself. He may be a very respectable person on a walking tour."

"I guess he is on a walkin' tour," said Matlack, "and I guess he's a
regular tramp, and there's no orders we've got that's stricter than them
against tramps."

"Well, I don't care who he is," said Mrs. Archibald, "or what your rules
are, but when a perfectly good-mannered man comes to us and asks simply to
be allowed to rest, I don't want him to be driven away as if he were a
stray pig on a lawn. Mr. Archibald, shouldn't he be allowed to rest a
while?"

Her husband rose and approached the stranger. "Where are you going, sir?"
said he.

The man looked at Matlack, at Martin, who stood behind him, and then at
the rest of the company, and after this comprehensive glance he smiled.

"From present appearances," he said, "I think I am going to go."

Mr. Archibald laughed. "When do you expect to get there?" he asked.

"It seems to me," said the other, reflectively, "that I am always going
there, and I suppose I shall have to keep on doing it."

"Look here," said Mr. Archibald, turning to Matlack, "give him some
supper, and let him rest. There will be time enough for him to get to
Sadler's after that. If Sadler has anything to say against it, refer him
to me."

"All right, sir," said Matlack, "if you say so. I'm no harder on my
fellow-bein's than other people, but rules is rules, and it isn't for me
to break them."

"My dear sir," said the stranger to Mr. Archibald, "your words are more
grateful to me than the promise of food. I see that you consider me a
tramp, but it is a mistake. I am not a tramp. If you will allow me, after
I have eaten a little supper--a meal which I must admit I greatly need--I
will explain to you how I happen to be here." And with a bow he walked
towards the table where Matlack and Martin had been eating their supper.

"Do you know what I think he is?" said Mr. Clyde, when Mr. Archibald had
resumed his seat and his pipe. "I believe he is a wandering actor. Actors
always have smoothly shaven faces, and he looks like one."

"Actor!" exclaimed Arthur Raybold. "That's nonsense. He's not in the least
like an actor. Anybody could see by his tread and his air that he's never
been on the stage. He's more like a travelling salesman. The next thing
he'll do will be to pull out of that bag some samples of spool thread or
patent thimbles."

"You are both wrong," said Margery--"entirely wrong. I have been looking
at him, and I believe he is a Methodist minister with a dead horse. They
ride circuits, and of course when their horses die they walk. Just wait a
little, and see if I am not right."

They waited a little, and then they waited a little longer, and they had
begun to be tired of waiting before the stranger finished his meal and
approached the fire. His face was brighter, his smile was more pleasant,
and his step had a certain jauntiness in it.

"I thank you all," he said, "for the very good meal I have just enjoyed. I
am now going to go, but before I start I would like very much--indeed, I
crave it as a favor--to place myself before you in my proper light. May I
have permission to do so, madam and sir?" he said, addressing Mrs. and Mr.
Archibald, but with a respectful glance at the others, as if he would not
ignore any one of them.

"Certainly," said Mrs. Archibald. "Sit down and tell us about yourself."

The stranger seated himself with alacrity a little back from the circle,
and nearer to the young men than to the Archibald party.




CHAPTER VIII

THE BISHOP'S TALE


The stranger placed his broad-brimmed hat on the ground beside him,
exposing a large round head somewhat bald in front, but not from age, and
the rest of it covered with close-cut brown hair. His black clothes fitted
him very closely, their extreme tightness suggesting that they had
shrunken in the course of wearing, or that he had grown much plumper since
he had come into possession of them; and their general worn and dull
appearance gave considerable distance to the period of their first
possession. But there was nothing worn or dull about the countenance of
the man, upon which was an expression of mellow geniality which would have
been suitably consequent upon a good dinner with plenty of wine. But his
only beverage had been coffee, and in his clear bright eye there was no
trace of any exhilaration, except that caused by the action of a hearty
meal upon a good digestion and an optimistic disposition.

"I am very glad," he said, looking about him at the company, and then
glancing with a friendly air towards the two guides, who stood a little
back of Mr. Archibald, "to have this opportunity to explain my appearance
here. In the first place, I must tell you that I am a bishop whose diocese
has been inundated, and who consequently has been obliged to leave it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Archibald; and Margery looked at Mr. Clyde, with the
remark:

"There! You see I was very near to it."

"I presume this statement will require some explanation," continued the
man in black, "and I will make it presently. I am going to be exceedingly
frank and open in all that I say to you, and as frankness and openness are
so extremely rare in this world, it may be that I shall obtain favor in
your eyes from the fact of my possessing those unusual qualities.
Originally I was a teacher, and for a year or two I had a very good
country school; but my employment at last became so repugnant to me that I
could no longer endure it, and this repugnance was due entirely to my
intense dislike for children."

"That is not at all to your credit," observed Mrs. Archibald; "and I do
not see how you became a bishop, or why you should have been made one."

"Was your diocese entirely meadow-land?" inquired Mr. Archibald.

"I am coming to all that," said the stranger, with a smile of polite
consideration towards Mrs. Archibald. "I know very well that it is not at
all to my credit to dislike children, but I said I would be honest, and I
am. I do dislike them--not their bodies, but their minds. Children,
considered physically, are often pleasant to the view, and even
interesting as companions, providing their innate juvenility is
undisturbed; but when their personalities are rudely thrown open by a
teacher, and the innate juvenility prematurely exposed to the air, it is
something so clammy, so chilly to the mental marrow, that I shrink from it
as I would shrink from the touch of any cold, clammy thing."

"Horrible!" exclaimed Mrs. Archibald.

"I am not sure," observed Margery, "that there is not some truth in that.
I had a Sunday-school class for a little while, and although I can't say
there was a clamminess, there was--well, I don't know what there was, but
I gave it up."

"I am glad," said the man in black, "that my candor is not sinking me in
the estimation of every one present; but even if it did, I am obliged to
tell the truth. I do not know what would have become of me if I had not
had the good-fortune to catch the measles from a family with whom I was
spending Sunday in another town. As soon as the disease plainly showed
itself upon me my school was broken up, and it was never gathered together
again, at least under me.

"I must make my story brief, and can only say that not long after this I
found myself in another town, where it became necessary for me to do
something to support myself. This was difficult, for I am an indefinite
man, and definiteness seems necessary to success in any line. Happening
one day to pass a house with open lower windows, I heard the sound of
children's voices speaking in unison, and knowing that this must be a
school, I looked in, compelled entirely by that curiosity which often
urges us to gaze upon human suffering. I found, however, that this was a
kindergarten conducted by a young woman. Unobserved by scholars or
teacher, I watched the proceedings with great interest, and soon became
convinced that kindergartening was a much less repellent system of tuition
than any I had known; but I also perceived that the methods of the young
woman could be greatly improved. I thought a good deal upon this subject
after leaving the open window. Soon afterwards, becoming acquainted with
the young person in charge of the children, I offered to teach her a much
better system of kindergartening than she was using. My terms were very
low, and she became my scholar. I soon learned that there were other
kindergartens in the town, and some of the teachers of these joined my
class. Moreover, there were young women in the place who were not
kindergartners, but who would like to become such, and these I also
taught, sometimes visiting them at their houses, and sometimes giving my
lessons in a room loaned by one of my patrons. My system became very
popular, because it was founded upon common-sense."

"What was your system?" asked Mrs. Archibald. "I am interested in
kindergartens myself."

"My object," he answered, "was to make the operation of teaching
interesting to the teacher. It struck me very forcibly that a continuance
of a few years in the present inane performances called kindergartening
would infallibly send to our lunatic asylums a number of women, more or
less young, with more or less depleted intellects. The various games and
exercises I devised were very interesting, and I am sure I had scholars
who never intended to become kindergartners, and who studied with me
solely for their own advantage. It was at this time that I adopted the
clerical dress as being more suitable to my vocation than any other
costume, and some one having called me the bishop, the name soon became
popular, and I was generally known by it."

"But what is your real name?" asked Mrs. Archibald.

"Madam," said the man, "you must excuse me if I ask you to recall your
question. I have a good name, and I belong to a very good family, but
there are reasons why I do not at present wish to avow that name. Some of
these reasons are connected with the report that I purposely visited the
family with the measles in order to get rid of my school; others are
connected with the inundation of my diocese, of which I shall speak;
others refer to my present indefinite method of life. There is reason to
suppose that the time is not far distant when my resumption of my family
name will throw no discredit upon it, but that period has not yet arrived.
Do you press your question, madam?"

"Oh no," said Mrs. Archibald; "it really makes no difference; and out here
in the woods a man may call himself a bishop or a cardinal or anything he
likes."

"Thank you very much," said he, "and I will continue to speak in figures,
and call myself a bishop."

"Where I was brought up," interpolated Phil Matlack, still standing behind
Mr. Archibald, "I was taught that figures don't lie."

"My good sir," said the speaker, with a smile, "in mathematics they don't,
in poetry and literature they often do. Well, as I was saying, my
diocese extended itself, my revenues were satisfactory, and I had
begun to believe that I had found my true work in life, when suddenly
there was a misfortune. There arrived in our town three apostles of
kindergartening--two of them were women, and one was a man. They had heard
of my system, and had come to investigate it. They did so, with the
result that in an astonishingly short time my diocese was inundated with a
flood of Froebelism which absolutely swept me away. With this bag,
this umbrella, and this costume, which has now become my wardrobe, I
was cast out in all my indefiniteness upon a definite world."

"And how did you get here?" asked Mrs. Archibald.

"I had heard of Sadler and his camps," said he; "and in this beautiful
month and in this beautiful weather I thought it would be well to
investigate them. I accordingly went to Mr. Sadler's, where I arrived
yesterday afternoon. I found Mr. Sadler a very definite man, and, I am
sorry to say, that as he immediately defined me as a tramp, he would
listen to no other definition. 'You have no money to pay for food and
lodgings,' said he, 'and you come under my tramp laws. I don't harbor
tramps, but I don't kick them out into the woods to starve. For labor on
this place I pay one dollar and a half a day of ten hours. For meals to
day-laborers I charge fifteen cents each. If you want your supper, you can
go out to that wood-shed and split wood for one hour.' I was very hungry;
I went out into the wood-shed; I split wood for one hour, and at the end
of that time I had a sufficient meal. When I had finished, Mr. Sadler sent
for me. 'Do you want to stay here all night?' he said. 'I do,' I answered.
'Go, then, and split wood for another hour.' I did so, and it was almost
dark when I had finished. In the morning I split wood for my breakfast,
and when I had finished I went to Mr. Sadler and asked him how much he
would charge for a luncheon wrapped in a piece of paper. 'Seven and a half
cents,' he said. I split wood for half an hour, and left Sadler's
ostensibly to return to the station by the way I had come; but while I had
been at work, I found from the conversation of some of the people that one
of the camps was occupied, and I also discovered in what direction it lay.
Consequently, after I had passed out of the sight of the definite Peter
Sadler, I changed my course, and took a path through the woods which I was
told would lead to this road, and I came here because I might just as well
pass this way as any other, and because, having set out to investigate
camp life, I wished to do so, and I hope I may be allowed to say that
although I have seen but little of it, I like it very much."

"Now, then," said Phil Matlack, walking around the circle and approaching
the stranger, "you said, when you first came here, that you were going to
go, and the time has come when you've got to go."

"Very well," said the other, looking up with a smile; "if I've got there
I'd better stop."

Mr. Archibald and the young men laughed, but Matlack and Martin, who had
now joined him, did not laugh.

"You've barely time enough," said the former, "to get to Sadler's before
it is pitch-dark, and--"

"Excuse me," said the other, "but I am not going back to Sadler's
to-night. I would rather have no bed than split wood for an hour after
dark in order to procure one. I would prefer a couch of dried leaves."

"You come along into the road with this young man and me; I want to talk
to you," said Matlack.

"Now, Matlack," said Mr. Archibald, "don't be cruel."

"I am not," said the guide. "I am the tenderest-hearted person in the
world; but even if you say so, sir, I can't let a stranger stay all night
in a camp that I've got charge of."

"Look here, Matlack," exclaimed Mr. Clyde, "you haven't got charge of our
camp!"

"No, I haven't," said the other.

"Well, then, this person can come over and stay with us. We have a little
tent that we brought to put over the cooking-stove, and he can sleep in
that."

"Very well," said Matlack; "if you take him out of this camp I haven't
anything to say--that is, to-night."

"My dear sir," said the stranger, rising, and approaching Mr. Clyde, "I
accept your offer with pleasure, and thank you most heartily for it. If
you had proffered me the hospitality of a palace, I could not be more
grateful."

"All right," said Clyde; "and I suppose it is time for us to be off, so I
will bid you all good-night. Come along, Arthur. Come along, bishop."

The face of the last-named individual beamed with delight as he heard this
appellation, and bidding everybody good-night, and thanking them for the
kindness with which he had been treated, he followed the two young men.

The three walked some little distance towards Camp Roy, and then Clyde
came running back to speak to Margery, who was now standing by herself
watching the young moon descend among the trees. Then Mr. Raybold also
stopped and came back to Margery, upon which the bishop stopped and waited
for them. In about ten minutes he was joined by the two young men, and the
three proceeded to Camp Roy.