But long before they arrived Corona finished her meal and rose.

"Now that we have had our supper," she said, "let us go where we shall not
be annoyed by the smell of food, and continue our conversation."

"Is it possible," thought the bishop, "that she can be annoyed by the
smell of hot meat, potatoes, and coffee? I suppose the delicious odor
comes from the other supper-table. Heavens! Why wasn't I asked there?"

There was a dreadful storm when Raybold and Clyde came to the table; but
Mrs. Perkenpine remained hard and immovable through it all.

"Your sister and that tramp has been here," said she, "and this is all
there is left. If you keep your hogs in your house, you can't expect to
count on your victuals."

Some more coffee was made, and that, with bread, composed the young men's
supper.

When Arthur Raybold had finished his meal, he walked to the spot where
Corona and the bishop were conversing, and stood there silently. He was
afraid to interrupt his sister by speaking to her, but he thought that his
presence might have an effect upon her companion. It did have an effect,
for the bishop seized the opportunity created by the arrival of a third
party, excused himself, and departed at the first break in Corona's flow
of words.

"I wish, Arthur," she said, "that when you see I am engaged in a
conversation, you would wait at least a reasonable time before
interrupting it."

"A reasonable time!" said Raybold, with a laugh. "I like that! But I came
here to interrupt your conversation. Do you know who that fellow is you
were talking to? He's a common, good-for-nothing tramp. He goes round
splitting wood for his meals. Clyde and I kept him here to cook our meals
because we had no servant, and he's been in bed for days because he had no
clothes to wear. Now you are treating him as if he were a gentleman, and
you actually brought him to our table, where, like the half-starved cur
that he is, he has eaten up everything fit to eat that we were to have for
our supper."

"He did not eat all of it," said Corona, "for I ate some myself; and if he
is the good-for-nothing tramp and the other things you call him, I wish I
could meet with more such tramps. I tell you, Arthur, that if you were to
spend the next five years in reading and studying, you could not get into
your mind one-tenth of the serious information, the power to reason
intelligently upon your perceptions, the ability to collate, compare, and
refer to their individual causes the impressions--"

"Oh, bosh!" said her brother. "What I want to know is, are you going to
make friends with that man and invite him to our table?"

"I shall invite him if I see fit," said she. "He is an extremely
intelligent person."

"Well," answered he, "if you do I shall have a separate table," and he
walked away.

As soon as he had left Corona, the bishop repaired to the Archibalds'
cooking-tent, where he saw Matlack at work.

"I have come," he said, with a pleasant smile, "to ask a very great favor.
Would it be convenient for you to give me something to eat? Anything in
the way of meat, hot or cold, and some tea or coffee, as I see there is a
pot still steaming on your stove. I have had an unlucky experience. You
know I have been preparing my own meals at the other camp, but to-day,
when Mrs. Perkenpine brought me my clothes, she carried away with her all
the provisions that had been left there. I supped, it is true, with Miss
Raybold, but her appetite is so delicate and her fare so extremely simple
that I confidentially acknowledge that I am half starved."

During these remarks Matlack had stood quietly gazing at the bishop. "Do
you see that pile of logs and branches there?" said he; "that's the
firewood that's got to be cut for to-morrow, which is Sunday, when we
don't want to be cuttin' wood; and if you'll go to work and cut it into
pieces to fit this stove, I'll give you your supper. You can go to the
other camp and sleep where you have been sleepin', if you want to, and in
the mornin' I'll give you your breakfast. I 'ain't got no right to give
you Mr. Archibald's victuals, but what you eat I'll pay for out of my own
pocket, considerin' that you'll do my work. Then to-morrow I'll give you
just one hour after you've finished your breakfast to get out of this camp
altogether, entirely out of my sight. I tried to have you sent away
before, but other people took you up, and so I said no more; but now
things are different. When a man pulls up what I've drove down, and sets
loose what I've locked up, and the same as snaps his fingers in my face
when I'm attendin' to my business, then I don't let that man stay in my
camp."

"Excuse me," said the bishop, "but in case I should not go away within the
time specified, what would be your course?"

In a few brief remarks, inelegant but expressive, the guide outlined his
intentions of taking measures which would utterly eliminate the physical
energy of the other.

"I haven't taken no advantage of you," he said, "I haven't come down on
you when you hadn't no clothes to go away in; and now that you've got good
clothes, I don't want to spile them if I can help it; but they're not
goin' to save you--mind my words. What I've said I'll stick to."

"Mr. Matlack," said the bishop, "I consider that you are entirely correct
in all your positions. As to that unfortunate affair of the boat, I had
intended coming to you and apologizing most sincerely for my share in it.
It was an act of great foolishness, but that does not in the least excuse
me. I apologize now, and beg that you will believe that I truly regret
having interfered with your arrangements."

"That won't do!" exclaimed the guide. "When a man as much as snaps his
fingers in my face, it's no use for him to come and apologize. That's not
what I want."

"Nevertheless," said the bishop, "you will pardon me if I insist upon
expressing my regrets. I do that for my own sake as well as yours; but we
will drop that subject. When you ask me to cut wood to pay for my meals,
you are entirely right, and I honor your sound opinion upon this subject.
I will cut the wood and earn my meals, but there is one amendment to your
plan which I would like to propose. To-morrow is Sunday; for that reason
we should endeavor to make the day as quiet and peaceable as possible, and
we should avoid everything which may be difficult of explanation or
calculated to bring about an unpleasant difference of opinion among other
members of the party. Therefore, will you postpone the time at which you
will definitely urge my departure until Monday morning?"

"Well," said Matlack, "now I come to think of it, it might be well not to
kick up a row on Sunday, and I will put it off until Monday morning; but
mind, there's no nonsense about me. What I say I mean, and on Monday
morning you march of your own accord, or I'll attend to the matter
myself."

"Very good," said the bishop; "thank you very much. To-morrow I will
consider your invitation to leave this place, and if you will come to Camp
Roy about half-past six on Monday morning I will then give you my
decision. Will that hour suit you?"

"All right," said Matlack, "you might as well make it a business matter.
It's going to be business on my side, I'd have you know."

"Good--very good," said the bishop, "and now let me get at that wood."

So saying, he put down his cane, took off his hat, his coat, his
waistcoat, his collar, and his cravat and his cuffs; he rolled up his
sleeves, he turned up the bottoms of his trousers, and then taking an axe,
he set to work.

In a few minutes Martin arrived on the scene. "What's up now?" said he.

"He's cuttin' wood for his meals," replied Matlack.

"I thought you were going to bounce him as soon as he got up?"

"That's put off until Monday morning," said Matlack. "Then he marches.
I've settled that."

"Did he agree?" asked Martin.

"'Tain't necessary for him to agree; he'll find that out Monday morning."

Martin stood and looked at the bishop as he worked.

"I wish you would get him to cut wood every day," said he. "By George, how
he makes that axe fly!"

When the bishop finished his work he drove his axe-head deep into a stump,
washed his hands and his face, resumed the clothing he had laid aside, and
then sat down to supper. There was nothing stingy about Matlack, and the
wood-chopper made a meal which amply compensated him for the deficiencies
of the Perkenpine repast.

When he had finished he hurried to the spot where the party was in the
habit of assembling around the camp-fire. He found there some feebly
burning logs, and Mr. Clyde, who sat alone, smoking his pipe.

"What is the matter?" asked the bishop. "Where are all our friends?"

[Illustration: "'WHERE ARE ALL OUR FRIENDS?'"]

"I suppose they are all in bed," said Clyde, "with the bedclothes pulled
over their heads--that is, except one, and I suspect she is talking in her
sleep. They were all here as usual, and Mr. Archibald thought he would
break the spell by telling a fishing story. He told me he was going to try
to speak against time; but it wasn't of any use. She just slid into the
middle of his remarks as a duck slides into the water, and then she began
an oration. I really believe she did not know that any one else was
talking."

"That may have been the case," said the bishop; "she has a wonderful power
of self-concentration."

"Very true," said Clyde, "and this time she concentrated herself so much
upon herself that the rest of us got away, one by one, and when all the
others had gone she went. Then, when I found she really had gone, I came
back. By-the-way, bishop," he continued, "there is something I would like
to do, and I want you to help me."

"Name it," said the other.

"I am getting tired of the way the Raybolds are trespassing on the
good-nature of the Archibalds, and, whatever they do, I don't intend to
let them make me trespass any longer. I haven't anything to do with Miss
Raybold, but the other tent belongs as much to me as it does to her
brother, and I am going to take it back to our own camp. And what is more,
I am going to have my meals there. I don't want that wooden-headed Mrs.
Perkenpine to cook for me."

"How would you like me to do it?" asked the bishop, quickly.

"That would be fine," said Clyde. "I will help, and we will set up
house-keeping there again, and if Raybold doesn't choose to come and live
in his own camp he can go wherever he pleases. I am not going to have him
manage things for me. Don't you think that you and I can carry that tent
over?"

"With ease!" exclaimed the bishop. "When do you want to move--Monday
morning?"

"Yes," said Clyde, "after breakfast."




CHAPTER XVIII

THE HERMITS ASSOCIATE


During the next day no one in camp had reason to complain of Corona
Raybold. She did not seem inclined to talk to anybody, but spent the most
of her time alone. She wrote a little and reflected a great deal,
sometimes walking, sometimes seated in the shade, gazing far beyond the
sky.

When the evening fire was lighted, her mood changed so that one might have
supposed that another fire had been lighted somewhere in the interior of
her mental organism. Her fine eyes glistened, her cheeks gently reddened,
and her whole body became animated with an energy created by warm
emotions.

"I have something I wish to say to you all," she exclaimed, as she reached
the fire. "Where is Arthur? Will somebody please call him? And I would
like to see both the guides. It is something very important that I have to
say. Mrs. Perkenpine will be here in a moment; I asked her to come. If Mr.
Matlack is not quite ready, can he not postpone what he is doing? I am
sure you will all be interested in what I have to say, and I do not want
to begin until every one is here."

Mr. Archibald saw that she was very much in earnest, and so he sent for
the guides, and Clyde went to call Raybold.

In a few minutes Clyde returned and told Corona that her brother had said
he did not care to attend services that evening.

"Where is he?" asked Miss Raybold.

"He is sitting over there looking out upon the lake," replied Clyde.

"I will be back almost immediately," said she to Mr. Archibald, "and in
the mean time please let everybody assemble."

Arthur Raybold was in no mood to attend services of any sort. He had spent
nearly the whole day trying to get a chance to speak to Margery, but never
could he find her alone.

"If I can once put the matter plainly to her," he said to himself, "she
will quickly perceive what it is that I offer her; and when she clearly
sees that, I will undertake to make her accept it. She is only a woman,
and can no more withstand me than a mound of sand built by a baby's hand
could withstand the rolling wave."

At this moment Corona arrived and told him that she wanted him at the
camp-fire. He was only a man, and could no more withstand her than a mound
of sand built by a baby's hand could withstand the rolling wave.

When everybody in the camp had gathered around the fire, Corona, her
eye-glasses illumined by the light of her soul, gazed around the circle
and began to speak.

"My dear friends," she said, "I have been thinking a great deal to-day
upon a very important subject, and I have come to the conclusion that we
who form this little company have before us one of the grandest
opportunities ever afforded a group of human beings. We are here, apart
from our ordinary circumstances and avocations, free from all the trammels
and demands of society, alone with nature and ourselves. In our ordinary
lives, surrounded by our ordinary circumstances, we cannot be truly
ourselves; each of us is but part of a whole, and very often an entirely
unharmonious part. It is very seldom that we are able to do the things we
wish to do in the manner and at times and places when it would best suit
our natures. Try as we may to be true to ourselves, it is seldom possible;
we are swept away in a current of conventionality. It may be one kind of
conventionality for some of us and another kind for others, but we are
borne on by it all the same. Sometimes a person like myself or Mr.
Archibald clings to some rock or point upon the bank, and for a little
while is free from the coercion of circumstances, but this cannot be for
long, and we are soon swept with the rest into the ocean of conglomerate
commonplace."

"That's when we die!" remarked Mrs. Perkenpine, who sat reverently
listening.

"No," said the speaker, "it happens while we are alive. But now," she
continued, "we have a chance, as I said before, to shake ourselves free
from our enthralment. For a little while each one of us may assert his or
her individuality. We are a varied and representative party; we come from
different walks of life; we are men, women, and--" looking at Margery, she
was about to say children, but she changed her expression to "young
people." "I think you will all understand what I mean. When we are at our
homes we do things because other people want us to do them, and not
because we want to do them. A family sits down to a meal, and some of them
like what is on the table, some do not; some of them would have preferred
to eat an hour before, some of them would prefer to eat an hour later; but
they all take their meals at the same time and eat the same things because
it is the custom to do so.

"I mention a meal simply as an instance, but the slavery of custom extends
into every branch of our lives. We get up, we go to bed, we read, we work,
we play, just as other people do these things, and not as we ourselves
would do them if we planned our own lives. Now we have a chance, all of
us, to be ourselves! Each of us may say, 'I am myself, one!' Think of
that, my friends, each one! Each of us a unit, responsible only to his or
her unity, if I may so express it."

"Do you mean that I am that?" inquired Mrs. Perkenpine.

"Oh yes," replied Corona.

"Is Phil Matlack one?"

"Yes."

"All right," said the female guide; "if he is one, I don't mind."

"Now what I propose is this," said Corona: "I understand that the stay in
this camp will continue for about a week longer, and I earnestly urge upon
you that for this time we shall each one of us assert our individuality.
Let us be what we are, show ourselves what we are, and let each other see
what we are."

"It would not be safe nor pleasant to allow everybody to do that," said
Mr. Archibald. He was more interested in Miss Raybold's present discourse
than he had been in any other he had heard her deliver.

"Of course," said she, "it would not do to propose such a thing to the
criminal classes or to people of evil inclinations, but I have carefully
considered the whole subject as it relates to us, and I think we are a
party singularly well calculated to become the exponent of the
distinctiveness of our several existences."

"That gits me," said Matlack.

"I am afraid," said the speaker, gazing kindly at him, "that I do not
always express myself plainly to the general comprehension, but what I
mean is this: that during the time we stay here, let each one of us do
exactly what he or she wants to do, without considering other people at
all, except, of course, that we must not do anything which would interfere
with any of the others doing what they please. For instance--and I assure
you I have thought over this matter in all its details--if any of us were
inclined to swear or behave disorderly, which I am sure could not be the
case, he or she would not do so because he or she would feel that, being
responsible to himself or herself, that responsibility would prevent him
or her from doing that which would interfere with the pleasure or comfort
of his or her associates."

"I think," said Mrs. Archibald, somewhat severely, "that our duty to our
fellow-beings is far more important than our selfish consideration of
ourselves."

"But reflect," cried Corona, "how much consideration we give to our
fellow-beings, and how little to ourselves as ourselves, each one. Can we
not, for the sake of knowing ourselves and honoring ourselves, give
ourselves to ourselves for a little while? The rest of our lives may then
be given to others and the world."

"I hardly believe," said Mr. Archibald, "that all of us clearly understand
your meaning, but it seems to me that you would like each one of us to
become, for a time, a hermit. I do not know of any other class of persons
who so thoroughly assert their individuality."

"You are right!" exclaimed Corona. "A hermit does it. A hermit is more
truly himself than any other man. He may dwell in a cave and eat
water-cresses, he may live on top of a tall pillar, or he may make his
habitation in a barrel! If a hermit should so choose, he might furnish a
cave with Eastern rugs and bric-Г -brac. If he liked that sort of thing, he
would be himself. Yes, I would have all of us, in the truest sense of the
word, hermits, each a hermit; but we need not dwell apart. Some of us
would certainly wish to assert our individuality by not dwelling apart
from others."

"We might, then," said Mr. Archibald, "become a company of associate
hermits."

"Exactly!" cried Corona, stretching out her hands. "That is the very
word--associate hermits. My dear friends, from to-morrow morning, until we
leave here, let us be associate hermits. Let us live for ourselves, be
true to ourselves. After all, if we think of it seriously, ourselves are
all that we have in this world. Everything else may be taken from us, but
no one can take from me, myself, or from any one of you, yourself."

The bishop now rose. He as well as the others had listened attentively to
everything that had been said; even Arthur Raybold had shown a great deal
of interest in his sister's remarks.

"You mean," said the bishop, "that while we stay here each one of us shall
act exactly as we think we ought to act if we were not influenced by the
opinions and examples of others around us, and thus we shall have an
opportunity to find out for ourselves and show others exactly what we
are."

"That is it," said Corona, "you have stated it very well."

"Well, then," said the bishop, "I move that for the time stated we
individually assert our individuality."

"Second the motion," said Mr. Archibald.

"All in favor of this motion please say 'Aye,'" said Corona. "Now let
everybody vote, and I hope you will all say 'Aye,' and if any one does not
understand, I will be happy to explain."

"I want to know," said Phil Matlack, rising, "if one man asserts what you
call his individ'ality in such a way that it runs up agin another man's,
and that second man ain't inclined to stand it, if that--"

"Oh, I assure you," interrupted the bishop, "that that will be all right.
I understand you perfectly, and the individualities will all run along
together without interfering with each other, and if one happens to get in
the way of another it will be gently moved aside."

"Gently!" said Matlack, somewhat satirically. "Well, all right, it will be
moved aside. I am satisfied, if the rest are."

"Now all in favor say 'Aye,'" said Corona.

They all said "Aye," except Mrs. Perkenpine, who said "Me."




CHAPTER XIX

MARGERY'S BREAKFAST


Very early the next morning Margery pushed wide open the window of her
studio chamber. The sash was a large one, and opened outward on hinges.
She looked out upon the dewy foliage, she inhaled the fragrance of the
moist morning air, she listened to the song of some early birds, and then,
being dressed for the day, she got on a chair, stepped on the window-sill,
and jumped out. She walked quietly round the cabin and went out towards
the lake. She had never seen the woods so early in the day. All the space
between the earth and the sky seemed filled with an intoxicating coolness.
She took off her hat and carried it in her hand; the sun was not yet high
enough to make it necessary to put anything between him and her.

"This is what I am," said Margery to herself as she stepped blithely on.
"I never knew before what I am. I am really a dryad under difficulties."

Presently, to her amazement and his amazement, she saw Martin. She went
towards him.

"Oh, Martin," she said, "are you up so early?"

He smiled. "This is not early for me," he answered.

"And Mr. Matlack, is he up?"

"Oh yes, he is up, and gone off to attend to some business."

"Well, really!" exclaimed Margery. "I thought I was the first one out in
the world to-day. And now, Martin, don't you want to do something for me?
I did not think it would happen, but I am really dreadfully hungry, and
couldn't you give me my breakfast now, by myself, before anybody else? I
am not particular what I have--anything that is easy to get ready will
do--and I would like it down at the very edge of the lake."

"You shall have it!" exclaimed Martin, eagerly. "I will get it ready for
you very soon, and will bring it to you. I know you like bread and butter
and jam, and there is some cold meat, and I will boil you an egg and make
some coffee."

"That will be lovely," said Margery, "and I will go down by the lake and
wait. I do believe," she said to herself as she hurried away, "that this
hermit business is the only sensible thing that ever came into the head of
that classic statue with the glass fronts."

Very soon Martin appeared with a rug, which he said she would want if she
were going to sit on the ground; and then he ran away, but soon came back
with the breakfast. Margery was surprised to see how tastefully it was
served.

"You could not have done it better," she said, "if you had been a"--she
was about to say waiter, but as she gazed at the bright, handsome face of
the young man she felt that it would hurt his feelings to use such a word,
so she suddenly changed it to woman.

"If it is done well," he said, "it is not because I am like a woman, but
because you are one."

"What does that mean?" thought Margery; but she did not stop to consider.
"Thank you very much," she said. "Here is where I am going to eat, and
nobody will disturb me."

"Do you wish anything else?" he asked.

"No," said she. "I have everything I want; you know I take only one cup of
coffee."

He did know it; he knew everything she took, and as he felt that there was
no excuse for him to stay there any longer, he slowly walked away.

The place Margery had chosen was a nice little nook for a nice little
hermit. It was a bit of low beach, very narrow, and flanked on the shore
side by a row of bushes, which soon turned and grew down to the water's
edge, thus completely cutting off one end of the beach. At the other end
the distance between the shrubbery and the water was but a few feet, so
that Margery could eat her breakfast without being disturbed by the rest
of the world.

Reclining on the rug with the little tray on the ground before her, and
some green leaves and a few pale wild flowers peeping over the edge of it
to see what she had for breakfast, Margery gave herself up to the
enjoyment of life.

"Each, one," she said aloud; "I am one, and beautiful nature is another.
Just two of us, and each, one. Go away, sir," she said to a big buzzing
creature with transparent wings, "you are another, but you don't count."

Arthur Raybold was perhaps the member of the party who was the best
satisfied to be himself. He had vowed, as he left the camp-fire the night
before, that his sister had at last evolved an idea which had some value.
Be himself? He should think so! He firmly believed that he was the only
person in the camp capable of truly acting his own part in life.

Clyde had told him that on this morning he was going to move the tent over
to their own camp, and though he had objected very forcibly, he found that
Clyde was not to be moved, and that the tent would be. In an angry mood he
had been the first one of the Associated Hermits to assert his
individuality. He made up his mind that he would not leave the immediate
atmosphere of Margery. He would revolve about her in his waking hours and
in his dreams, and in the latter case he would revolve in a hammock hung
between two trees not far from his sister's tent; and as he was not one
who delayed the execution of his plans, he had put up the hammock that
night, although his tent was still in Camp Rob. He had not slept very
well, because he was not used to repose in a hammock; and he had risen
early, for, though wrapped in a blanket, he had found himself a little
chilly.

Starting out for a brisk walk to warm himself, he had not gone far before
he thought he heard something which sounded like the clicking of knife and
fork and dish. He stopped, listened, and then approached the source of the
sounds, and soon stood at the open end of Margery's little beach. For a
few moments she did not know he was there, so engrossed was her mind with
the far-away shadows on the lake, and with the piece of bread and jam she
held in her hand.

"Oh, happy Fates!" he exclaimed. "How have ye befriended me! Could I have
believed such rare fortune was in store for me?"

At the sound of his voice Margery turned her head and started, and in the
same instant she was on her feet.

"Margery," he said, without approaching her, but extending his arms so
that one hand touched the bushes and the other reached over the water, "I
have you a gentle prisoner. I consider this the most fortunate hour of my
whole existence. All I ask of you is to listen to me for ten minutes, and
then I will cease to stand guard at the entrance to your little haven, and
although you will be free to go where you please, I know you will not go
away from me."

Margery's face was on fire. She was so angry she could scarcely speak, but
she managed to bring some words to her lips to express her condition of
mind.

"Mr. Raybold," she cried, "if I ever hear any more of that horrid trash
from you I will speak to Mr. Archibald, and have him drive you out of this
camp. I haven't spoken to him before because I thought it would make
trouble and interfere with people who have not done anything but what is
perfectly right, but this is the last time I am going to let you off, and
I would like you to remember that. Now go away this instant, or else step
aside and let me pass."

Raybold did not change his position, but with a smile of indulgent
condescension he remarked:

"Now, then, you are angry; but I don't mind that, and I am quite sure you
do not mean it. You see, you have never heard all that I have to say to
you. When I have fully spoken to you, then I have no fear--"

He had not finished his sentence, when Margery dashed into the water,
utterly regardless of her clothes, and before the astonished intruder
could advance towards her she had rushed past him, and had run up on dry
land a yard or two behind him. The water on the shelving beach was not
more than a foot deep, but her mad bounds made a splashing and a
spattering of spray as if a live shark bad been dropped into the shallow
water. In a moment she had left the beach and was face to face with
Martin, pale with fright.

"I thought you had tumbled in!" he cried. "What on earth is the matter?"

She had no breath to answer, but she turned her head towards the lake, and
as Martin looked that way he saw Raybold advancing from behind the bushes.
It required no appreciable time for the young guide to understand the
situation. His whole form quivered, his hands involuntarily clinched, his
brows knitted, and he made one quick step forward; but only one, for
Margery seized him by the wrist. Without knowing what he was doing, he
struggled to free himself from her, but she was strong and held him fast.

"I must go to my tent," she gasped. "I am all wet. Now promise me that you
will not say a thing or do a thing until I see you again. Promise!"

For a moment he seemed undecided, and then he ceased his efforts to get
away, and said, "I promise."

Margery dropped his arm and hurried towards the cabin, hoping earnestly
that the Archibalds were not yet up.

"This is a gay and lively beginning for a hermit," she thought, as she
made her way around the house, "and I don't see how on earth I am ever
going to get through that window again. There is nothing to stand on. I
did not expect to go back until they were all up."

But when she reached the window there was a stout wooden stool placed
below it.

"Martin did that," she thought, "while I was at my breakfast. He knew I
must have come through the window, and might want to go back that way. Oh
dear!" she sighed. "But I am sure I can't help it." And so, mounting from
the stool to the window-sill, she entered her room.

Having given his promise, Martin turned his back upon the sombre young
man, who, with folded arms and clouded brow, was stalking towards the
tents at the other end of the camp.

"If I look at him," said Martin, "it may be that I could not keep my
promise."

It was about half an hour afterwards, when Martin, still excited and still
pale, was getting ready for the general breakfast, forgetting entirely
that he was a hermit, and that some of the other hermits might have
peculiar ideas about their morning meal, that Phil Matlack arrived on the
scene. Martin was very much engrossed in his own thoughts, but he could
not repress an inquiring interest in his companion.

"Well," said he, "did you bounce him?"

Matlack made no answer, but began to cut out the top of a tin can.

"I say," repeated Martin, "did you bounce him, or did he go without it?"

Without turning towards the younger man, Matlack remarked: "I was
mistaken. That ain't fat; it's muscle."

"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Martin, in astonishment, "that he
bounced you out of that camp!"

"I don't mean to say nothin'," was the reply, "except what I do say; and
what I say is that that ain't fat; it's muscle. When I make a mistake I
don't mind standin' up and sayin' so."

Martin could not understand the situation. He knew Matlack to be a man of
great courage and strength, and one who, if he should engage in a personal
conflict, would not give up until he had done his very best. But the
guide's appearance gave no signs of any struggle. His clothes were in
their usual order, and his countenance was quiet and composed.

"Look here," cried Martin, "how did you find out all that about the
bishop?"

Matlack turned on him with a grim smile. "Didn't you tell me that day you
was talkin' to me about the boat that he was a tough sort of a fellow?"

"Yes, I did," said the other.

"Well," said Matlack, "how did you find that out?"

Martin laughed. "I shouldn't wonder," he said, "if we were about square.
Well, if you will tell me how you found it out, I will tell you how I
did."

"Go ahead," said the other.

"The long and short of my business with him," said Martin, "was this: I
went with him down to the lake, and there I gave him a piece of my mind;
and when I had finished, he turned on me and grabbed me with his two hands
and chucked me out into the water, just as if I had been a bag of bad meal
that he wanted to get rid of. When I got out I was going to fight him, but
he advised me not to, and when I took a look at him and remembered the
feel of the swing he gave me, I took his advice. Now what did he do to
you?"

"He didn't do nothin'," said Matlack. "When I got to the little tent he
sleeps in, there he was sittin' in front of it, as smilin' as a basket of
chips, and he bade me good-mornin' as if I had been a tenant comin' to pay
him his rent; and then he said that before we went on with the business
between us, there was some things he would like to show me, and he had 'em
all ready. So he steps off to a place a little behind the tent, and there
was three great bowlders, whopping big stones, which he said he had
brought out of the woods. I could hardly believe him, but there they was.
'You don't mean,' says I, 'that you are goin' to fight with stones;
because, if you are, you ought to give me a chance to get some,' and I
thought to myself that I would pick up rocks that could be heaved. 'Oh
no,' says he, with one of them smiles of his--'oh no; I just want to open
our conference with a little gymnastic exhibition.' And so sayin', he
rolled up his shirt-sleeves--he hadn't no coat on--and he picked up one of
them rocks with both hands, and then he gave it a swing with one hand,
like you swing a ten-pin ball, and he sent that rock about thirty feet.

"It nearly took my breath away, for if I had to move such a stone I'd want
a wheelbarrow. Then he took another of the rocks and hurled it right on
top of the first one, and it came down so hard that it split itself in
half. And then he took up the third one, which was the biggest, and threw
it nearly as far, but it didn't hit the others. 'Now, Mr. Matlack,' says
he, 'this is the first part of my little programme. I have only one or two
more things, and I don't want to keep you long.' Then he went and got a
hickory sapling that he'd cut down. It was just the trunk part of it, and
must have been at least three inches thick. He put the middle of it at the
back of his neck, and then he took hold of the two ends with his hands and
pulled forward, and, by George! he broke that stick right in half!

"Then says he, 'Would you mind steppin' down to the lake?' I didn't mind,
and went with him, and when we got down to the water there was their boat
drawed up on the shore and pretty nigh full of water. 'Mr. Clyde brought
this boat back the other day,' says he, 'from a place where he left it
some distance down the lake, and I wonder he didn't sink before he got
here. We must try and calk up some of the open seams; but first we've got
to get the water out of her.' So sayin', he squatted down on the ground in
front of the boat and took hold of it, one hand on one side of the bow and
one on the other, and then he gave a big twist, and just turned the boat
clean over, water and all, so that it lay with its bottom up, and the
water running down into the lake like a little deluge.

"'That ought to have been done long ago,' says he, 'and I'll come down
after a while and calk it before the sun gets on it.' Then he walked back
to camp as spry as a robin, and then says he, 'Mr. Matlack, my little
exhibition is over, and so we'll go ahead with the business you proposed.'
I looked around, and says I: 'Do you find that little tent you sleep in
comfortable? It seems to me as if your feet must stick out of it.' 'They
do,' says he, 'and I sometimes throw a blanket over them to keep them dry.
But we are goin' to make different arrangements here. Mr. Clyde and I will
bring down his tent after breakfast, and if Mr. Raybold doesn't choose to
occupy it, Mr. Clyde says I may share it with him. At any rate, I've
engaged to attend to the cookin' and to things in general in this camp
durin' the rest of the time we stay here.'

"'And so Mr. Clyde is tired of trespassin', is he?' says I. 'Yes, he is,'
says he; 'he's a high-minded young fellow, and doesn't fancy that sort of
thing. Mr. Raybold slept last night in a hammock, and if that suits him,
he may keep it up.' 'If I was you,' says I, 'if he does come back to the
camp, I'd make him sleep in that little tent. It would fit him better than
it does you.' 'Oh no,' says he, 'I don't want to make no trouble. I'm
willin' to sleep anywhere. I'm used to roughin' it, and I could make
myself comfortable in any tent I ever saw.' 'Well,' says I, 'that was a
very pretty exhibition you gave me, and I am much obliged to you, but I
must be goin' over to my camp to help get breakfast.' 'If you see Mr.
Clyde,' says he, 'will you kindly tell him that I will come over and help
him with his tent in about an hour?' To which I said I would, and I left.
Now then, hurry up. Them hermits will want their breakfasts."




CHAPTER XX

MARTIN ASSERTS HIS INDIVIDUALITY


"Good-morning," said Mr. Clyde, as he approached Mr. and Mrs. Archibald,
seated opposite each other at their breakfast-table. "So you still eat
together? Don't ask me to join you; I have had my breakfast."

"Yes," said Mr. Archibald, "we did think that, as we were hermits, we
ought to eat in some separate, out-of-the-way fashion; but we could not
think of any, and as we were both hungry and liked the same things, we
concluded to postpone the assertion of our individualities."

"And Miss Dearborn?" asked Clyde.

"Oh, she had her breakfast long ago, so she told us," said Mrs. Archibald.
"I suppose she took some bread and jam, for I do not know what else she
could have had."

"As for me," said Clyde, "I thought I would do something of the sort. I
like an early breakfast, and so I turned out, more than an hour ago and
went to look up Mrs. Perkenpine; and I might as well say, sir, that I am
now looking for the bishop to come and help me carry our tent back to our
own camp, where he is going to cook for us. I never wanted to be a
trespasser on your premises, and I don't intend to be such any longer."

"That's the right feeling," said Mr. Archibald; "although, in fact, it
doesn't make any difference to us whether your party camps here or not. At
first I thought it would, but I find it does not."

"By which he means," said Mrs. Archibald, "that if you want to go away he
is perfectly willing to have you stay, but if you don't want to go away he
doesn't like it, and would have you move."

Clyde laughed. "I haven't anything to say for the others," he answered,
"but as long as I have a camp of my own I think I ought to live there."

"But how about Mrs. Perkenpine?" asked Mrs. Archibald. "Did you find her
willing to wait on you, one at a time?"

"Not exactly," said Clyde. "I discovered her, by her kitchen tent, hard at
work eating her own breakfast. I must have looked surprised, for she lost
no time in telling me that she was a hermit, and was living for one person
at a time--herself first--and that she was mighty glad to get a chance to
have her breakfast before anybody else, for she was always hungry and
hated waiting. I looked at the table, and saw that she had the breakfast
ready for the whole party; so I said, 'I am a hermit too, and I am living
for myself, and so I am going to sit down and eat.' 'Squat,' said she, and
down I sat; and I had the best meal of her cooking that I have yet tasted.
I told her so, and she said she shouldn't wonder. 'Because,' said she, 'I
cooked this breakfast for myself--me, one--and as I wasn't thinkin' what
other people 'd like, I got things a little more tasty than common, I
guess.'"

"And what does she expect Miss Raybold and her brother to do?" asked Mrs.
Archibald.

"When she had finished she got up," Clyde answered, "and went away, merely
remarking that the victuals were there, and when the others were ready for
them they might come and get them."

"I hope," said Mr. Archibald, "that Matlack will not fancy that sort of a
hermit life. But as for me, I am greatly taken with the scheme. I think I
shall like it. Is Miss Raybold about yet?"

"I see nothing of her," said Clyde, looking over towards her tent.

"Good," said Mr. Archibald, rising. "Harriet, if you want me, I shall be
in my cave."

"And where is that?" she asked.

"Oh, I can't say exactly where it will be," he answered, "but if you will
go down to the shore of the lake and blow four times on the dinner-horn
I'll come to you, cave and all. I can easily pull it over the water."

"You forget," said Mrs. Archibald, with a smile, "that we are associate
hermits."

"No, I do not," said her husband, "I remember it, and that is the reason I
am off before Miss Raybold emerges upon the scene."

"I do not know," said Mrs. Archibald to Clyde, "exactly how I am going to
assert myself to-day, but I shall do it one way or the other; I am not
going to be left out in the cold."

Clyde smiled, but he had no suggestion to offer; his mind was filled with
the conjecture as to what sort of a hermit life Margery was going to lead,
and if she had already begun it. But just then the bishop came up, and
together they went to carry the tent back to Camp Roy.

It was at least an hour afterwards, and Mrs. Archibald was comfortably
seated in the shade darning stockings, with an open book in her lap.
Sometimes she would read a little in the book and then she would make some
long and careful stitches in the stocking, and then she would look about
her as if she greatly enjoyed combining her work and her recreation in
such a lovely place on such a lovely summer morning. During one of these
periods of observation she perceived Corona Raybold approaching.

"Good-morning," said the elder lady. "Is this your first appearance?"

"Yes," said Corona, with a gentle smile. "When I woke this morning I found
myself to be an individual who liked to lie in bed and gaze out through an
open fold in my tent upon the world beyond, and so I lay and dozed and
gazed, until I felt like getting up, and then I got up, and you cannot
imagine how bright and happy I felt as I thought of what I had been doing.
For one morning at least I had been true to myself, without regard to
other people or what they might think about it. To-morrow, if I feel like
it, I shall rise at dawn, and go out and look at the stars struggling with
Aurora. Whatever my personal instincts happen to be, I shall be loyal to
them. Now how do you propose to assert your individuality?"

"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Archibald, "I cannot do that exactly as I would
like to. If we had not promised my daughter and her husband that we would
stay away for a month, I should go directly home and superintend my
jelly-making and fruit-preserving; but as I cannot do that, I have
determined to act out my own self here. I shall darn stockings and sew or
read, and try to make myself comfortable and happy, just as I would if I
were sitting on my broad piazza, at home."

"Good!" said Corona. "I think it likely that you will be more true to
yourself than any of us. Doubtless you were born to be the head of a
domestic household, and if you followed your own inclination you would be
that if you were adrift with your family on a raft in the middle of the
ocean. Now I am going away to see what further suggestions my nature has
to offer me. What is Mr. Archibald doing?"

Mrs. Archibald smiled. She knew what Corona's nature would suggest if she
met a man who could talk, or rather, listen. "Oh, his nature has prompted
him to hie away to the haunts of game, and to stay there until he is half
starved."

Miss Raybold heaved a little sigh. "I see very few persons about here,"
she said--"only the two guides, in fact."

"Yes," said Mrs. Archibald, "the bishop has gone to help Mr. Clyde with
his tent."

Corona moved slowly away, and as she walked her nature suggested that she
would better eat something, so she repaired to the scene of Mrs.
Perkenpine's ordinary operations. There she found that good woman
stretched flat on her back on the ground, fast asleep. Her face and body
were shaded by some overhanging branches, but her great feet were
illumined and gilded by the blazing sun. On a camp table near by were the
remains of the breakfast. It had been there for two or three hours. Arthur
Raybold had taken what he wanted and had gone, and before composing
herself for her nap Mrs. Perkenpine had thrown over it a piece of
mosquito-netting.

Corona smiled. "Their natures are coming out beautifully," she said. "It
really does me good to see how admirably the scheme is unfolding itself."
She sat down and ate what she could find to her taste, but it was not
much. "I shall send for some fruit and some biscuit and some other little
things," she thought, "that I can keep in my tent and eat when I please.
That will suit me much better than the ordinary meals." Then, without
awakening Mrs. Perkenpine, she strolled away, directing her steps towards
Camp Roy.

When Margery had gone to her room, and had changed her wet clothes, she
was thoroughly miserable. For some time she sat on the side of her little
cot, unwilling to go out, on account of a nervous fear that she might meet
Mr. Raybold. Of course, if he should again speak to her as he had done,
she would immediately appeal to Mr. Archibald, but she did not want to do
this, for she had a very strong desire not to make any trouble or
divisions in the camp; so she lay down to think over the matter, and in
less than two minutes she was asleep. Mrs. Archibald had come to call her
to breakfast, but upon being told that she had been up ever so long, and
had had her breakfast, she left the girl to her nap.

"I shall sleep here," thought Margery, "until they have all gone to do
whatever it is they want to do, and then perhaps I may have a little
peace."

When she awoke it was nearly eleven o'clock, and she went immediately to
her little side window, from which she could see the lake and a good deal
of the camp-ground. The first thing which met her reconnoitering gaze was
a small boat some distance out on the lake. Its oars were revolving
slowly, something like a pair of wheels with one paddle each, and it was
occupied by one person. This person was Arthur Raybold, who had found the
bishop calking the boat, and as soon as this work was finished, had
moodily declared that he would take a row in her. He had not yet had a
chance to row a boat which was in a decent condition. He wanted to be
alone with his aspirations. He thought it would be scarcely wise to
attempt to speak to Margery again that morning; he would give her time for
her anger to cool. She was only a woman, and he knew women!

"It's that Raybold," said Margery. "He knows no more about rowing than a
cat, and he's floating sideways down the lake. Good! Now I can go out and
hope to be let alone. I don't know when he will ever get that boat back
again. Perhaps never."

She was not a wicked girl, and she did not desire that the awkward rower
might never get back; but still she did not have that dread of an accident
which might have come over her had the occupant of the boat been a brother
or any one she cared very much about. She took a novel, of which, during
her whole stay in camp, she had read perhaps ten pages, and left the
cabin, this time by the door.

"How does your individuality treat you?" asked Mrs. Archibald, as Margery
approached her.

"Oh, horribly, so far," was the answer; "but I think it is going to do
better. I shall find some nice place where I can read and be undisturbed.
I can think of nothing pleasanter such a morning as this."

"I am very much mistaken in your nature," thought Mrs. Archibald, "if that
is the sort of thing that suits you."

"Martin," said Margery, not in the least surprised that she should meet
the young guide within the next three minutes, "do you know of some really
nice secluded spot where I can sit and read, and not be bothered? I don't
mean that place where you hung the hammock. I don't want to go there
again."

Martin was pale, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "Miss Dearborn," said
he, "I think it is a wicked and a burning shame that you should be forced
to look for a hiding-place where you may hope to rest undisturbed if that
scoundrel in the boat out there should happen to fancy to come ashore. But
you needn't do it. There is no necessity for it. Go where you please, sit
where you please, and do what you please, and I will see to it that you
are not disturbed."

"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Margery. "That would never do. I know very well
that you could keep him away from me, and I am quite sure that you would
be glad to do it, but there mustn't be anything of that kind. He is Miss
Raybold's brother and--and in a way one of our camping party, and I don't
want any disturbances or quarrels."

Martin's breast heaved, and he breathed heavily. "I have no doubt you are
right," he said--"of course you are. But I can tell you this: if I see
that fellow troubling you again I'll kill him, or--"

"Martin! Martin!" exclaimed Margery. "What do you mean? What makes you
talk in this way?"

"What makes me?" he exclaimed, as if it were impossible to restrain his
words. "My heart makes me, my soul makes me. I--"

"Your heart? Your soul?" interrupted Margery. "I don't understand."

For a moment he looked at the astonished girl in silence, and then he
said: "Miss Dearborn, it's of no use for me to try to hide what I feel. If
I hadn't got so angry I might have been able to keep quiet, but I can't do
it now. If that man thinks he loves you, his love is like a grain of sand
compared to mine."