"There is one thing, Harriet," said Mr. Archibald, "which I wish you would
speak to Margery about. I don't want her to get up so early and go out for
a morning walk. I find that those young men are also early risers."

"I will speak to her," said Mrs. Archibald; "where is she?"

"Over there, talking to young Martin," said her husband. "It isn't quite
dark yet, but I think it is time we were all in bed."

"Quite time," said she. "Margery tells me that that young guide, who is a
handsome fellow, is going to teach her how to fish with flies. I wish you
would sometimes take her out in the boat with you, Mr. Archibald; I am
sure that you could teach her how to fish."

He smiled. "I suppose I could," he said; "and I also suppose I could pull
her out of the water the first time she hooked a big fish. It would be
like resting a boat on a pivot to put her into it."

"Then you don't take her," said Mrs. Archibald, decisively. "And you can't
take her with you up the stream, because, of course, she can't wade. I
don't want her to get tired of camp-life, but--"

"Don't be afraid of the young men," interrupted her husband, with a laugh;
"so long as there are three of them there is no danger."

"Of course I will not, if you don't wish it, Aunt Harriet," said Margery,
when Mrs. Archibald had spoken to her about the early morning walks; "and
I will stay in my room until you call me."

The next morning, when Mrs. Archibald was ready to leave the cabin, she
did call Margery, but received no answer. Then she went to the little
studio-room, and when she opened the door she found its occupant leaning
out of the window talking to Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold, who stood
outside.

"Good-morning, Aunt Harriet!" exclaimed Margery, gayly. "Mr. Clyde has
brought me nearly an armful of birch-bark, all thin and smooth. I am going
to make a birch-bark bedspread out of it. I'll cover a sheet with these
pieces, you see, and sew them on. Then I can have autographs on them, and
mottoes, and when I cover myself up with it I shall really feel like a
dryad."

"And here is what I have brought," said Mr. Raybold, holding up an armful
of bark.

"Oh, thank you very much," said Margery, taking the mass, but not without
dropping a good many of the pieces. "Of course it was kind of him to bring
it," she said to Mrs. Archibald, as they left the room together, "but he
needn't have bothered himself: I don't want to sleep under a wood-pile."




CHAPTER IX

MATLACK'S THREE TROUBLES


"Have you asked those two young men to breakfast again?" inquired Mr.
Archibald, after examining, with a moderate interest, the specimen of
birch-bark which Margery had shown him.

"Oh no, indeed," said she, "they have had their breakfast. They have been
telling me about it. The bishop got up very early in the morning and
cooked it for them. He's a splendid cook, and he found things in their
hampers that they didn't know they had. They said his coffee was
delicious, and they have left him there in their camp now, washing the
dishes and putting everything in order. And do you think, Uncle Archibald,
that it is going to rain?"

"I do," said he, "for it is sprinkling already."

This proved to be the first bad day since the Archibald party had gone
into camp, and the rain soon began to come down in a steady, practised
way, as if the clouds above were used to that sort of thing and could
easily keep it up all day.

As there was no place under roof to which company could be conveniently
invited, Margery retired to her room and set herself diligently to work on
her birch-bark quilt.

Mrs. Archibald established herself in the division of the cabin which was
intended to be used as a sitting and dining room in bad weather, and
applied herself to some sewing and darning, which had been reserved for
just such a day as this. Mr. Archibald, in a water-proof suit, tried
fishing for half an hour or so, but finding it both unpleasant and
unprofitable, he joined his wife, made himself as comfortable as possible
on two chairs, and began to read aloud one of the novels they had brought
with them.

Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold had considerately gone to their own camp when it
began to rain, hoping, however, that the shower would be over in a short
time. But the rain was not a shower, and they spent the morning on their
backs in their tent, talking and smoking. Of course they could not expect
the bishop to depart in the rain, so they had told him to make himself as
comfortable as he could in the little kitchen tent, and offered him a pipe
and a book. The first he declined, as he never smoked, but the latter he
accepted with delight.

After the mid-day dinner Phil Matlack, in a pair of high hunting-boots and
an oil-skin coat, came to Mr. Archibald and said that as there was nothing
he could do that afternoon, he would walk over to Sadler's and attend to
some business he had there.

"About the bishop?" asked Mr. Archibald.

"Partly," said Matlack. "I understand the fellow is still over there with
those two young men. I don't suppose they'll send him off in the rain, and
as he isn't in my camp, I can't interfere. But it may rain for two or
three days."

"All right," said Mr. Archibald, "and if we want anything we'll ask
Martin."

"Just so," said Matlack. "If there's anything to do that you don't want to
do yourself, you can get him to do it; but if you want to know anything
you don't know yourself, you'd better wait until I come back."

When Matlack presented himself before Peter Sadler he found that ponderous
individual seated in his rolling-chair near the open door, enjoying the
smell of the rain.

"Hello, Phil!" he cried. "What's wrong at the camp?"

The guide left his wet coat and cap on the little piazza outside, and
after carefully wiping his feet, seated himself on a chair near the door.

"There's three things wrong," said he. "In the first place, there's a
tramp out there, and it looks to me as if he was a-goin' to stick, if he
can get allowed to do it."

"Is he too big for you to bounce?" roared Peter. "That's a pretty story to
come tell me!"

"No, he ain't," said the other; "but I haven't got the bouncin' of him.
He's not in my camp. The young men have took him in; but I expect he'll
come over with them as soon as it's done rainin', for when that happens
they're bound to come themselves."

"Look here, Phil," said Peter, "is he dressed in black?"

"Yes, he is," said the guide.

Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. "Phil Matlack," he
shouted, "that's my favorite tramp. I never had a man here who paid his
bill in work as he did. It was cash down, and good money. Not a minute of
wood-splitting more or less than the market-price for meals and bed. I'd
like to have a tramp like that come along about twice a week. But I tell
you, Phil, he ain't no tramp. Couldn't you see that? None of them loafers
ever worked as he did."

"He may not be a tramp," said Matlack, "but he's trampin'. What are you
goin' to do about him? Let him stay there?"

"What's he doin' now?" asked Sadler.

"He's cookin' for those two young men."

"Well, they need some one to do it for them, and they didn't want to go to
the expense of a guide. Let the parson alone for a day or two, and if he
does anything out of the way just you take him by one ear and Martin take
him by the other and bring him to me. I'll attend to him. What's the next
trouble?"

"That's out of my camp, too," said Matlack, "but I'm bound to report it.
The bicycle fellow that you hired a gun to don't know the fust thing about
usin' it, and the next thing you'll hear will be that he's shot his
pardner, who's worth six of him."

Mr. Sadler sat up very straight in his chair and stared at the guide.
"Phil Matlack," he shouted, "what do you take me for? I hired that gun to
that young man. Don't you suppose I know what I'm about?"

"That's all right," said Matlack, "but the trouble is he don't know what
he's about."

"Get away man," said Peter, with a contemptuous sniff, "he'll never hurt
anybody. What do you take me for? When he came to me and wanted a gun, I
handed him two or three, so that he might choose one that suited him, and
by the way he handled them I could see that most likely he'd never handled
one before, and so I set him up all right. He's got a good gun, and all
the cartridges he'll be likely to want; and the cartridges are all like
this. They're a new kind I heard of last winter, and I got a case from
Boston last week. I don't see how I ever managed to run my camps without
them. Do you see that shot?" said he, opening one end of a cartridge.
"Well, take one in your hand and pinch it."

Phil did so, and it crumbled to dust in his hand.

"When that load's fired," said Peter, "all the shot will crumble into
dust. It wouldn't do to give raw hands blank-cartridges, because they'd
find that out; but with this kind they might sit all day and fire at a
baby asleep in its cradle and never disturb it, provided the baby was
deaf. And he can't use his pardner's cartridges, for I gave that fellow a
twelve-bore gun and his is a ten-bore."

Phil grinned. "Well, then," said he, "I suppose I might as well make my
mind easy, but if that bicycle man hunts much he'll get the conviction
borne in on him that he's a dreadful bad shot."

"Then he'll give up shooting, which is what is wanted," said Sadler.
"What's your third bother?"

"That young woman has made up her mind to go out in the boat by herself
the very fust time she feels like it," said Matlack; "she didn't say so
with her mouth, but she said it with the back of her head and her
shoulders, and I want to know if that rule of yours is going to hold good
this summer. Women is gettin' to do so many things they didn't use to that
I didn't know but what you'd consider they'd got far enough to take
themselves out on the lake, and if you do think so, I don't want to get
myself in hot water with those people and then find you don't back me
up."

"If you don't want to get yourself into hot water with me, Phil Matlack,
you'd better get it into your head just as soon as you can that when I
make a rule it's a rule, and I don't want people comin' to me and talkin'
about changes. Women in my camp don't go out in boats by themselves, and
it's easy enough to have that rule kept if you've got backbone enough to
do it. Keep the boat locked to the shore when it ain't in use, and put the
key in your pocket, and if anybody gets it that 'ain't any right to it,
that's your lookout. Now that's the end of your troubles, I hope. How's
things goin' on generally in the camp?"

"Oh, well enough," said Matlack. "I thought at fust the old lady'd give
out in a day or two, but I've taught her parlor-fishin', which she's took
to quite lively, and she's got used to the woods. The boss, he sticks to
fishin', as if it was office-work, and as for the rest of them, I guess
they're all gettin' more and more willin' to stay."

"Why?" asked Peter.

"Well, one of them is a gal and the others isn't," replied Matlack,
"that's about the p'int of it."

During Matlack's walk back the skies cleared, and when he reached the camp
he found Mrs. Archibald seated in her chair near the edge of the lake, a
dry board under her feet, and the bishop standing by her, putting bait on
her hook, and taking the fish off of it when any happened to be there. Out
in the boat sat Mr. Archibald, trusting that some fish might approach the
surface in search of insects disabled by the rain. Farther on, at a place
by the water's edge that was clear of bushes and undergrowth, Martin was
giving Miss Dearborn a lesson in fly-fishing.

"He's a mighty good fisherman," thought Matlack, looking at the young
fellow as he brought his rod back from the water with a long graceful
sweep, and then, with another sweep and an easy inclination of his body
forward, sending the fly far out on the smooth surface of the lake,
"although there ain't no need to tell him so; and I don't wonder she'd
rather stand and watch him than try to do it herself."

Walking up and down near the edge of the wood were Messrs. Clyde and
Raybold.

Phil smiled. "They don't seem to be happy," he said to himself. "I guess
they're hankerin' to take a share in her edication; but if you don't know
nothin' yourself, you can't edicate other people."

Matlack directed his steps towards Mrs. Archibald; but before he reached
her he was met by the bishop, who hurried towards him.

"I shall be obliged to surrender my post to you," he said, "which will be
greatly to the lady's satisfaction, I imagine, for I must appear a poor
attendant after you."

[Illustration: "A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING"]

"Goin' to leave us?" said Matlack. "You look quite spruced up."

The bishop smiled. "You allude, I suppose," said he, "to the fact that my
hat and clothes are brushed, and that I am freshly shaved and have on a
clean collar. I like to be as neat as I can. This is a gutta-percha
collar, and I can wash it whenever I please with a bit of damp rag, and it
is my custom to shave every day, if I possibly can. But as to leaving you,
I shall not do so this evening. I have promised those young gentlemen who
so kindly invited me to their camp that I would prepare their supper for
them, and I must now go to make the fire and get things in readiness."

"Have they engaged you as cook and general help?" asked Matlack.

"Oh no," said the bishop, with a smile, "they are kind and I am grateful,
that is all."




CHAPTER X

A LADIES' DAY IN CAMP


Two days after the rainy day in camp Mr. Archibald determined to take the
direction of affairs into his own hands, so far as he should be able.
Having no authority over the two young men at Camp Roy, he had hitherto
contented himself with a disapproval of their methods of employing their
time, which he communicated only to his wife. But now he considered that,
as they were spending so much of their time in his camp and so little in
their own, he would take charge of them exactly as if they belonged to his
party. He would put an end, if possible, to the aimless strolls up and
down the beach with Margery, and the long conversations of which that
young woman had grown to be so fond, held sometimes with both young men,
though more frequently with one. If Clyde and Raybold came into the woods
to lounge in the shade and talk to a girl, they must go to some other camp
to do it. But if they really cared to range the forest, either as
sportsmen or lovers of nature, he would do his best to help them; so this
day he organized an expedition to a low mountain about two miles away,
taking Matlack with him as guide, and inviting the two young men to join
him. They had assented because no good reason for declining had presented
itself, and because Phil Matlack earnestly urged them to come along and
let him show them what a real forest tramp was like. Before his recent
talk with Peter Sadler, Phil would not have dared to go out into the woods
in company with the bicycle man.

The two ladies were perfectly willing to remain in camp under the charge
of Martin, who was capable of defending them against any possible danger;
and as the bishop had agreed to take charge of Camp Roy during the absence
of its occupants, Mr. Archibald planned for a whole day's tramp, the first
he had taken since they went into camp.

When Martin's morning work was done he approached the shady spot where the
two ladies had established themselves, and offered to continue his lessons
in fish-flying if Miss Dearborn so desired. But Miss Dearborn did not wish
to take any lessons to-day. She would rest and stay with Mrs. Archibald.
Even the elder lady did not care to fish that morning. The day was hot and
the shade was grateful.

Martin walked away dissatisfied. In his opinion, there had never been a
day more suitable for angling; this was a day which would be free from
interruptions, either from two young fellows who knew nothing about real
game-fishing, or from Matlack, who always called him away to do something
when he was most interested in his piscatorial pedagogics. This was a day
when he could stand by that lovely girl, give her the rod, show her how to
raise it, wave it, and throw it, and sometimes even touch her hand as he
took it from her or gave it back, watching her all the time with an
admiration and delight which no speckled trout or gamy black bass had ever
yet aroused in him, and all this without fear that a gentleman out on the
lake might possibly be observing them with the idea that he was more
interested in his work than the ordinary guide might be supposed to be.
But luck was against him, and Martin, who did not in the least consider
himself an ordinary guide, walked up and down in moody reflection, or
grimly threw himself upon the ground, gazing upward at the sky--not half
so blue as he was--but never walking or resting so far away that he could
not hear the first cry from her should snake, bear, dragon-fly, or danger
of any kind approach her.

To the ladies, about half an hour later, came the bishop, who, newly
shaved and brushed, wished them good-morning, and offered his services in
any manner which might be desired. If Mrs. Archibald wished to fish by the
side of the lake, he was at her service; but Mrs. Archibald did not care
to fish.

"This is a most charming day," said the bishop, removing his hat, "but I
suppose it is more charming to me because it is my last day here."

"And so you are really going to go?" said Mrs. Archibald, smiling.

"I suppose you think I am not likely to get there," said he, "but really I
have stayed here long enough, and for several reasons."

"Sit down," said Margery, "and tell us what they are. There is a nice
little rock with some moss on it."

The bishop promptly accepted the invitation and seated himself. As he did
so, Martin, at a little distance, scowled, folded his arms, and slightly
increased the length of his sentinel-like walk.

"Yes," said the bishop, brushing some pine leaves from his threadbare
trousers, "during the time that I have accepted the hospitality of those
young gentlemen I feel that I have in a great measure repaid them for
their kindness, but now I see that I shall become a burden and an expense
to them. In the first place, I eat a great deal more than both of them put
together, so that the provisions they brought with them will be exhausted
much sooner than they expected. I am also of the opinion that they are
getting tired of eating in their own camp, but as I make a point of
preparing the meals at stated hours, of course they feel obliged to
partake of them."

"By which you mean, I suppose," said Mrs. Archibald, "that if they had not
you to cook for them they would be apt to take a good many meals with us,
as they did when they first came, and which would be cheaper and
pleasanter."

"I beg, madam," said the bishop, quickly, "that you will not think that
they have said anything of the sort. I simply inferred, from remarks I
have heard, that one of them, at least, is very much of the opinion you
have just stated; therefore I feel that I cannot be welcome much longer in
Camp Roy. There is also another reason why I should go now. I have a
business prospect before me."

"I am glad to hear that," said Mrs. Archibald. "Is it a good one?"

"I think it is," said the bishop. "I have been considering it earnestly,
and the more I fix my mind upon it the greater appear its advantages. I
don't mind in the least telling you what it is. A gentleman who is
acquainted with my family and whom I have met two or three times, but not
recently, possesses a very fine estate some thirty miles south of this
place. He has been in Europe for some time, but is expected to return to
his country mansion about the end of this week. It is my purpose to offer
myself to him in the capacity of private librarian. I do not think it will
be difficult to convince him that I have many qualifications for the
situation."

"Has he so many books that he needs a librarian?" asked Margery.

"No," said the bishop, "I have no reason to suppose that he has any more
books than the ordinary country gentleman possesses, but he ought to have.
He has a very large income, and is now engaged in establishing for his
family what is intended to become, in time, an ancestral mansion. It is
obvious to any one of intelligence that such a grand mansion would not be
complete without a well-selected library, and that such a library could
not be selected or arranged by an ordinary man of affairs. Consequently,
unless he has a competent person to perform this duty for him, his
library, for a long time, will be insignificant. When I shall put the
question before him, I have no doubt that he will see and appreciate the
force and value of my statements. Such a position will suit me admirably.
I shall ask but little salary, but it will give me something far better
than money--an opportunity to select from the book marts of the whole
world the literature in which I delight. Consequently, you will see that
it is highly desirable that I should be on hand when this gentleman
arrives upon his estate."

With a look of gentle pity Mrs. Archibald gazed at the smooth round face
of the bishop, flushed with the delights of anticipation and brightened by
the cheery smile which nearly always accompanied his remarks. "And is that
your only prospect?" she said. "I don't want to discourage you, but it
seems to me that if you had some regular business--and you are not too old
to learn something of the sort--it would be far better for you than trying
to obtain the mythical position you speak of. I see that you are a man of
intelligence and education, and I believe that you would succeed in almost
any calling to which you would apply yourself with earnestness and
industry. You must excuse me for speaking so plainly, but I am much older
than you are and I do it for your good."

"Madam," exclaimed the bishop, radiant with grateful emotion, "I thank you
from the bottom of my heart for what you have said. I thank you for your
appreciation of me and for the generous motive of your words, but, to be
frank with you, I am not suited to a calling such as you have mentioned. I
have many qualities which I well know would promote my fortunes were they
properly applied, but that application is difficult, for the reason that
my principal mental characteristic is indefiniteness. When but a little
child I was indefinite. Nobody knew what I was going to do, or how I would
turn out; no one has since known, and no one knows now. In whatever way I
have turned my attention in my endeavors to support myself, I have been
obstructed and even appalled by the definiteness of the ordinary pursuits
of life. Now the making of a private library is in itself an indefinite
occupation. It has not its lines, its rules, its limitations. But do not
think, kind lady, that I shall always depend upon such employment. Should
I obtain it, I should hold it only so long as it would be necessary, and
it may be necessary for but a little while. Do you care to hear of my
permanent prospects?" said he, looking from one lady to the other.

"Certainly," said Margery, "we would like to hear all you have to tell."

"Well then," said the bishop, folding his arms and smiling effusively, but
with a gentle curbing of his ordinary cheerfulness, "I will inform you
that I have an uncle who is a man of wealth and well on in years.
Unfortunately, or fortunately it may be, this uncle greatly dislikes me.
He objects so strongly to my methods of thought and action, and even to my
physical presence, that he cannot bear to hear me speak or even to look at
me, and the last time I was in his company, about four years ago, he told
me that he would leave me a legacy on condition that he should never hear
from me or see me again. He promised to make the proper provision in his
will immediately, but declared, and I know he will keep his word, that if
he ever received a letter from me or even saw me or heard my voice he
would instantly strike out that clause. I appreciated and respected his
feelings, and accepted the condition. From that moment I have not written
to him, nor shall I ever write to him, and I shall never go near him so
long as he is alive. As I said, he is of advanced age, and it is
impossible that he can long survive. When his demise takes place my
circumstances will, I believe, be satisfactory."

"Did your uncle say how much he would leave you?" asked Mrs. Archibald.

"No, madam," returned the other, "he did not, but I feel sure that the sum
will be measured by his satisfaction in knowing that his existence is
entirely freed from me."

"Really," said Mrs. Archibald, "there is nothing about you so indefinite
as your prospects."

"And it seems horrible to me," said Margery, "to be hoping that some one
may die in order that you may be better off, for, as you want money so
much, you must hope that your uncle will die."

The bishop smiled and rose. "And now," said he, "I suppose I must go to
prepare the dinner at Camp Roy. There is nobody but myself to eat it, but
I have assumed the duty, and it must be performed. Good-morning. By your
leave, I shall look in upon you again."

Mrs. Archibald had a mind to ask him to stay and dine with them, but
having noticed an unfriendly expression on the face of Martin when his
gloomy walk brought him in her direction, she thought it would not be wise
to do so.




CHAPTER XI

MARGERY TAKES THE OARS


After dinner Mrs. Archibald prepared herself for a nap, the most
delightful thing she could think of during the warm hours of such a day.
Margery, after seeing the elder lady comfortably disposed in the shady
sitting-room of the cabin, went out-of-doors with no doubt in her mind as
to what would be for her the most delightful thing to do. She would take a
row on the lake all by herself.

She went down to the boat, which was partly drawn up on the beach and
fastened to a heavy stake. But when she reached it she was disgusted to
find that the chain was secured to the stake by a padlock. The oars were
in the boat, and she could easily have pushed it into the water, but she
could not set it free without the key to the padlock.

"I do believe," she exclaimed, "that the will of that horrid Mr. Sadler is
like gas. It goes everywhere, even to the tops of the houses and under the
beds." But she did not give up her intention. She tried to detach the
chain from the boat, but finding this impossible, she thought of going for
Martin. Perhaps he might have a key. This idea, however, she quickly put
aside. If he had a key, and gave it to her, she might get him into
trouble, and, besides, she did not believe that he would let her go alone,
and in any other way she did not wish to go. Standing with her pretty
brows knit, and one heel deep in the soft ground into which she had
stamped it, she heard approaching footsteps, and turning, saw the bishop.
He came forward with a buoyant step.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Dearborn?" he said. "Do you wish
to go out on the lake? Do you want some one to row you?"

"Yes and no," said Margery. "I want to go out in the boat, and I don't
want anybody to row me. But that chain is fastened with an abominable
padlock, and I cannot launch the boat."

"One of your guides is here," said he. "Perhaps I can get a key from
him."

"No, no," said Margery, quickly; "he must not know about it. There is a
Sadler law against it, and he is employed by Sadler."

"It is very securely fastened," said the bishop, examining the lock and
chain. "It is the work of the guide Matlack, I have no doubt. But, Miss
Dearborn," said he, with a bright smile, "there is a boat at Camp Roy.
That is not locked, and I can bring it here in twenty minutes."

"No," said Margery; "I don't want that boat. I've seen it. It is a clumsy
old thing, and, besides, it leaks. I want this one. This is just the kind
of boat I want to row. It is too bad! If I could get off now there would
be nobody to hinder me, for Martin is washing the dinner dishes, or doing
something of that kind, and whenever he does house-work he always keeps
himself out of sight."

The bishop examined the stake. It was a stout little tree trunk driven
deep into the ground and projecting about five feet above the surface,
with the chain so wrapped around it that it was impossible to force it up
or down. Seizing the stake near the top, the bishop began to push it
backward and forward, and being a man of great strength, he soon loosened
it so much that, stooping, he was able to pull it from the ground.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Margery. "It came up just like pulling a tooth."

"Yes," said the radiant bishop, "the good Matlack may be very careful
about fastening a boat, but I think I have got the better of him this
time; and now I will put the stake, chain and all, in the bow. That is the
best way of disposing of them. Are you sure that you prefer going alone? I
shall be delighted to row you if you wish me to."

"Oh no," said Margery; "I am just wild to row myself, and I want to hurry
and get off for fear Martin will be coming down here."

"Are you sure you understand rowing and the management of a boat?" he
asked.

"Oh yes," she replied, "I can row; of course I can. I will get in, and
then you can push off the boat."

"Allow me," said the bishop. But before he could reach her to help her,
Margery stepped quickly into the boat and was about to seat herself.

"If you will take the seat next to the stern," said the bishop, holding
the boat so that it would be steady, "I think that will be better. Then
the weight of the stake in the bow will put the boat on an even keel."

"All right," said Margery, accepting his suggestion and seating herself.
"Now just wait until I get the oars into the rowlocks, and then you can
push me off."

"Which way do you intend to row?" asked the bishop.

"Oh, I shall go down towards the lower end of the lake, because that way
there are more bushes along the banks and Martin will be less apt to see
me. If I go the other way I will be in plain sight of the camp, and he may
think he ought to do something--fire a gun across my bows to bring me to,
maybe, as they do at sea."

"Hardly," said the bishop, "but let me advise you not to go very far from
the shore, so that if you feel tired you can come in easily, and if you
will allow me I will walk down the shore in the direction in which you
intend to row."

"Oh, I am not going to get tired," said she. "I could row all day. It is
splendid to be in a boat all by myself and have the whole management of
it. Now please push me off."

With some reluctance, but with a sincere desire to make the young girl
happy, which could not be overcome by prudence--at least by such prudence
as he possessed--the bishop, with a strong, steady push, sent the boat
well out on the surface of the water.

"That was beautifully done," Margery called back to him. "Now I have room
enough to turn around without any trouble at all."

She turned the boat about with its bow towards the lower end of the lake,
but it was not done without trouble. "I have not rowed for a good while,"
she said, "but I am getting used to the oars already. Now then, I'm off,"
and she began to pull with a strength which, had it been suitably paired
with skill, would have made her an excellent amateur oarswoman. But the
place of skill was supplied by enthusiasm and determination. Once or twice
an oar slipped from the rowlock and she nearly went over backward, and
several times one of the blades got under the water with the flat side up,
so that she had difficulty in getting it out. She raised her oars much too
high in the air, but she counterbalanced this by sinking them very deep
into the water. But she got on, and although her course was somewhat
irregular, its general trend was in the direction desired.

The bishop walked along the bank, keeping as near to the water as he
could. Sometimes masses of shrubbery shut off all view of the lake, and
then there would be an open space where he would stop and watch the boat.

"Please keep near the shore, Miss Dearborn," he called, "that will be
better, I think, and it is certainly more shady and pleasant than farther
out."

"I know what you mean," cried Margery, pulling away in high good-humor,
"you think it is safer near the shore; but I am not going to row very far
this time, and after a little while I may pull the boat in and rest for a
time before starting back," and then she rowed on with renewed energy.

The next time the bishop was able to hail the boat, it was at a point
where he was obliged to push his way through the bushes in order to see
out upon the lake.

"Miss Dearborn," he called, "I think you are a great deal too far from
shore, and you must be getting very tired and hot. Your face is greatly
flushed. I will hurry along and see if I can find a good place for you to
stop and cool yourself."

"I am all right," cried Margery, resting on her oars. "I get along very
well, only the boat doesn't steer properly. I think it is because of the
weight of that stick in the bow. I suppose I cannot get rid of it?"

"Oh no!" cried the bishop, in alarm; "please don't think of it! But if you
touch shore at the first open space, I think I can arrange it better for
you."

"Very good," said she; "you go ahead and find such a place, and I will
come in."

"If you touch shore," said the bishop to himself, "you don't go out again
in that boat alone! You don't know how to row at all."

The bishop ran a hundred yards or more before he found a place at which a
boat could be beached. It was not a very good place, but if he could reach
out and seize the bow, that would be enough for him. He was strong enough
to pull that boat over a paved street.

As he looked out over the water he saw that Margery had progressed
considerably since he had seen her last, but she was still farther from
shore than before.

"Row straight towards me!" he shouted. "Here is a fine landing-place, cool
and shady."

She looked around and managed to turn the boat's head in his direction.
Then she rowed hard, pulling and splashing, and evidently a little tired.
She was strong, but this unusual exercise was a trial to her muscles.
Perhaps, too, she felt that the bishop was watching her, and that made her
a little nervous, for she could not help being aware that she was not
handling the oars as well as when she started out. With a strong pull at
her right oar to turn the boat inland, she got her left oar tangled
between the water and the boat, so it seemed to her, and lost her hold of
it. In a moment it was overboard and floating on the lake.

Leaning over the side of the boat, she made a grasp at the oar, but it was
too far for her to reach it; and then, by a spasmodic movement of the
other oar, the distance was increased.

The bishop's face grew pale. As he looked at her he saw that she was
moving away from the floating oar, and now he understood why she had
progressed so well. There was a considerable current in the lake which had
carried her along, and was now moving the heavy boat much faster than it
moved the oar. What should he tell her to do? If she could put her single
oar out at the stern, she might scull the boat; but he was sure she did
not understand sculling, and to try it she would have to stand up, and
this would be madness.

She now took the other oar from the rowlock, and was about to rise, when
the bishop shouted to her.

"What are you going to do?" he cried.

"I am going to the stern," she said, "to see if I cannot reach that oar
with this one. Perhaps I can pull it in."

"For Heaven's sake, don't do that!" he cried. "Don't stand up, or the boat
will tip, and you will fall overboard."

"But what can I do?" she called back. "I can't row with one oar."

"Try rowing a little on one side, and then on the other," said he.
"Perhaps you can bring in the boat in that way."

She followed his suggestion, but very awkwardly, and he saw plainly that
she was tired. Instead of approaching the shore, the boat continued to
float down the lake.

Margery turned again. "Bishop," she cried, "what shall I do? I must do
something, or I can't get ashore at all."

She did not look frightened; there was more of annoyance in her
expression, as if she thought it impertinent in fate to treat her in this
way, and she would not stand it.

"If I had thought of the current," said the bishop to himself, "I would
never have let her go out alone, and she can't be trusted in that boat
another minute longer. She will do something desperate." So saying, the
bishop took off his hat and threw it on the ground. Then he unbuttoned his
coat and began to take it off, but he suddenly changed his mind. Even in
that wilderness and under these circumstances he must appear respectable,
so he buttoned his coat again, hastily took off his shoes, and, without
hesitating, walked into the water until it was above his waist, and then
calling to Margery that he was coming to her, he began to swim out into
the lake. He did not strike out immediately for the boat, but directed his
course towards the floating oar. Turning his head frequently towards
Margery, he could see that she was sitting perfectly still, watching him,
and so he kept on with a good heart.

The bishop was a powerful swimmer, but he found great difficulty in making
his way through the water, on account of the extreme tightness of his
clothes. It seemed to him that his arms and legs were bandaged in splints,
as if he had been under a surgeon's care; but still he struck out as well
as he could, and in time reached the oar. Pushing this before him to the
boat, Margery took hold of it.

"You swim splendidly," said she. "You can climb in right here."

But the bishop knew better than that, and worked his way round to the
stern, and after holding on a little while to get his breath, he managed
to clamber into the boat.

"Was the water very cold?" said she.

On his replying that it was, she said she thought so because he seemed
stiff.

"Now, Miss Dearborn," said he, "I have made the stern seat very wet, but I
don't believe you will mind that, and if you will sit here I will take the
oars and row you in."

[Illustration: "BUT THE BISHOP KNEW BETTER"]

"Oh, I think I can do that myself," said Margery. "I am rested now, and I
am ever so much obliged to you for getting my oar for me."

Under almost any circumstances the bishop could smile, and now he smiled
at the ridiculousness of the idea of Margery's rowing that boat back
against the current, and with him in it.

"Indeed," said he, "I must insist. I shall freeze to death if I don't warm
myself by exercise." So, reaching out his hand, he assisted Margery to the
stern, and seating himself in her place, he took the oars, which she had
drawn in.

"I don't see why I could not make the boat go along that way," said she,
as they began to move steadily towards the camp. "I believe I could do it
if people would only let me practise by myself; but they always want to
show me how, and I hate to have anybody show me how. It is funny," she
continued, "that you seem so very wet all but your collar. That looks as
smooth and nice as if it had just come from the laundry."

The bishop laughed. "That is because it is gutta-percha," he said,
"intended for rough use in camp; but the rest of my habiliments were not
intended for wet weather."

"And you have no hat," said she. "Doesn't the sun hurt your head?"

"My head does feel a little warm," said he, "but I didn't want to row back
to the place where I left my hat. It was not a good landing-place, after
all. Besides," he said to himself, "I never thought of my hat or my
shoes."




CHAPTER XII

THE BISHOP ENGAGES THE ATTENTION OF THE GUIDES


When the boat touched the shore Margery ran to the cabin to assure Mrs.
Archibald of her safety, if she had been missed.

The bishop was sticking the stake in the hole from which he had pulled it,
when Martin came running to him.

"That's a pretty piece of business!" cried the young man. "If you wanted
to go out in the boat, why didn't you come to me for the key? You've got
no right to pull up the stakes we've driven down. That's the same thing as
stealing the boat. What's the matter? Did you tumble overboard? You must
be a pretty sort of an oarsman! If the ladies want to go out in the boat,
I am here to take them. I'd like you to understand that."

As has been said before, the bishop could smile under almost any
circumstances, and he smiled now, but at the same time his brow wrinkled,
which was not common when he smiled.

"I am going down to the shore to get my hat and shoes," he said, "and I
would like you to come along with me. I can't stand here and talk to
you."

"What do you want?" said Martin.

"Come along and see," said the bishop; "that is, if you are not afraid."

That was enough, and the young man walked behind him until they reached
the spot where the bishop had taken to the water. Then he stopped, and
explained to Martin all that had happened.

"Now," said he, "what have you got to say?"

Martin, now that he knew that the bishop had plunged into the water for
the sake of the beautiful Margery, was more jealously angry than when he
had supposed he had merely taken her out to row.

"I haven't anything to say," he answered, shortly, "except that parsons
had better attend to their own business, if they have any, and let young
ladies and boats alone."

"Oh, that's all, is it?" said the bishop, and with a quick step forward he
clutched the young man's arm with his right hand, while he seized his belt
with the other, and then with a great heave sent him out into the water
fully ten feet from the shore. With a splash like a dropped anchor Martin
disappeared from view, but soon arose, his head and shoulders above the
surface, where he stood for a moment, spluttering and winking and almost
dazed.

The bishop stood on the bank and smiled. "Did you fall overboard?" said
he. "You must be a pretty sort of a boatman!"

Without replying, Martin began to wade ashore.

"Come on," said the bishop; "if you can't get up the bank, I'll help
you."

But Martin needed no help; he scrambled to the bank, shook himself, and
then advanced upon the bishop, fire in his eye and his fist clinched.

"Stop, young man," said the other. "It would not be fair to you if I did
not tell you that I am a boxer and a heavy-weight, and that I threw you
into the water because I didn't want to damage your face and eyes. You
were impertinent, but I am satisfied, and the best thing you can do is to
go and change your clothes before any one sees you in that plight. You are
better off than I am, because I have no clothes with which to make a
change." So saying, he sat down and began to put on his shoes.

Martin stood for a moment and looked at the bishop, he thought of Margery
and a possible black eye, and then he walked as fast as he could to his
tent to get some dry clothes. He was very wet, he was very hot, he was
very angry, and what made him more angry than anything else was a respect
for the bishop which was rising in him in spite of all his efforts to keep
it down.

When Mr. Archibald and his party came back to camp late in the afternoon,
Margery, who had already told her story to Mrs. Archibald, told it to each
of the others. Mr. Archibald was greatly moved by the account of the
bishop's bravery. He thoroughly appreciated the danger to which Margery
had been exposed. There were doubtless persons who could be trusted so sit
quietly in a little boat with only one oar, and to float upon a lake out
of sight and sound of human beings until another boat could be secured and
brought to the rescue, but Margery was not one of these persons. Her
greatest danger had been that she was a child of impulse. He went
immediately to Camp Roy to see the bishop and express his gratitude, for
no matter how great the foolish good-nature of the man had been, his brave
rescue of the girl was all that could be thought of now.

[Illustration: "WITH A GREAT HEAVE SENT HIM OUT INTO THE WATER"]

He found the bishop in bed, Mr. Clyde preparing the supper, and Mr.
Raybold in a very bad humor.

"It's the best place for me," said the bishop, gayly, from under a heavy
army blanket. "My bed is something like the carpets in Queen Elizabeth's
time, and this shelter-tent is not one which can be called commodious, but
I shall stay here until morning, and then I am sure I shall be none the
worse for my dip into the cold lake."

As Mr. Archibald had seen the black garments of the bishop hanging on a
bush as he approached the tent, he was not surprised to find their owner
in bed.

"No," said the bishop, when Mr. Archibald had finished what he had to say,
"there is nothing to thank me for. It was a stupid thing to launch a young
girl out upon what, by some very natural bit of carelessness, might have
become to her the waters of eternity, and it was my very commonplace duty
to get her out of the danger into which I had placed her; so this, my dear
sir, is really all there is to say about the matter."

Mr. Archibald differed with him for about ten minutes, and then returned
to his camp.

Phil Matlack was also affected by the account of the rescue, and he
expressed his feelings to Martin.

"He pulled up the stake, did he?" said Phil. "Well, I'll make him pull up
his stakes, and before he goes I've a mind to teach him not to meddle with
other people's affairs."

"If I were you," said Martin, "I wouldn't try to teach him anything."

"You think he is too stupid to learn?" said Matlack, getting more and more
angry at the bishop's impertinent and inexcusable conduct. "Well, I've
taught stupid people before this."

"He's a bigger man than you are," said Martin.

Matlack withdrew the knife from the loaf of bread he was cutting, and
looked at the young man.

"Bigger?" said he, scornfully. "What's that got to do with it? A load of
hay is bigger than a crow-bar, but I guess the crow-bar would get through
the hay without much trouble."

"You'd better talk about a load of rocks," said Martin. "I don't think
you'd find it easy to get a crow-bar through them."

Matlack looked up inquiringly. "Has he been thrashing you?" he asked.

"No, he hasn't," said Martin, sharply.

"You didn't fight him, then?"

"No, I didn't," was the answer.

"Why didn't you? You were here to take charge of this camp and keep things
in order. Why didn't you fight him?"

"I don't fight that sort of a man," said Martin, with an air which, if it
were not disdainful, was intended to be.

Matlack gazed at him a moment in silence, and then went on cutting the
bread. "I don't understand this thing," he said to himself. "I must look
into it."




CHAPTER XIII

THE WORLD GOES WRONG WITH MR. RAYBOLD


The next morning Mr. Archibald started out, very early, on a fishing
expedition by himself. He was an enthusiastic angler, and had not greatly
enjoyed the experience of the day before. He did not object to shooting if
there were any legitimate game to shoot, and he liked to tramp through the
mountain wilds under the guidance of such a man as Matlack; but to keep
company all day with Raybold, who, in the very heart of nature, talked
only of the gossip of the town, and who punctuated his small talk by
intermittent firing at everything which looked like a bird or suggested
the movements of an animal, was not agreeable to him. Clyde was a better
fellow, and Mr. Archibald liked him, but he was young and abstracted, and
the interest which clings around an abstracted person who is young is
often inconsiderable, so he determined for one day at least to leave Sir
Cupid to his own devices, for he could not spend all his time defending
Margery from amatory dawdle. For this one day he would leave the task to
his wife.

That day Mr. Raybold was in a moody mood. Early in the morning he had
walked to Sadler's, his object being to secure from the trunk which he had
left there a suit of ordinary summer clothes. He had come to think that
perhaps his bicycle attire, although very suitable for this sort of life,
failed to make him as attractive in the eyes of youth and beauty as he
might be if clothed in more becoming garments. It was the middle of the
afternoon before he returned, and as he carried a large package, he went
directly to his own camp, and in about half an hour afterwards he came
over to Camp Rob dressed in a light suit, which improved his general
appearance very much.

In his countenance, however, there was no improvement whatever, for he
looked more out of humor than when he had set out, and when he saw that
Mrs. Archibald was sitting alone in the shade, reading, and that at a
considerable distance Harrison Clyde was seated by Margery, giving her a
lesson in drawing upon birch bark, or else taking a lesson from her, his
ill-humor increased.

"It is too bad," said he, taking a seat by Mrs. Archibald without being
asked; "everything seems to go wrong out here in these woods. It is an
unnatural way to live, anyhow, and I suppose it serves us right. When I
went to Sadler's I found a letter from my sister Corona, who says she
would like me to make arrangements for her to come here and camp with us
for a time. Now that suits me very well indeed. My sister Corona is a very
fine young woman, and I think it would be an excellent thing to have two
young ladies here instead of one."

"Yes," said Mrs. Archibald, "that might be very pleasant. I should be glad
for Margery to have a companion of her own sex."

"I understand precisely," said Raybold, nodding his head sagaciously; "of
her own sex. Yes, I see your drift, and I agree with you absolutely. There
is a little too much of that thing over there, and I don't wonder you are
annoyed."

"I did not say I was annoyed," said Mrs. Archibald, rather surprised.

"No," he answered, "you did not say so, but I can read between the lines,
even spoken lines. Now when I heard that my sister wanted to come out
here," he continued, "at first I did not like it, for I thought she might
be some sort of a restraint upon me; but when I considered the matter
further, I became very much in favor of it, and I sent a telegram by the
stage telling her to come immediately, and that everything would be ready
for her. My sister has a sufficient income of her own, and she likes to
have everything suited to her needs. I am different. I am a man of the
world, and although I do not always care to conform to circumstances, I
can generally make circumstances conform to me. As Shakespeare says, 'The
world is my pottle, and I stir my spoon.' You must excuse my quoting, but
I cannot help it. My life work is to be upon the stage, and where one's
mind is, there will his words be also."