"Yours?" cried Margery.

"Yes," said Martin, his face pallid and his eyes sparkling, "mine. You may
think it is an insult for me to talk this way, but love is love, and it
will spring up where it pleases; and besides, I am not the common sort of
a fellow you may think I am. After saying what I have said, I am bound to
say more. I belong to a good family, and am college bred. I am poor, and I
love nature. I am working to make money to travel and become a naturalist.
I prefer this sort of work because it takes me into the heart of nature. I
am not ashamed of what I am, I am not ashamed of my work, and my object in
life is a nobler one, I think, than the practice of the law, or a great
many other things like it."

Margery stood and looked at him with wide-open eyes. "Do you mean to say,"
she said, "that you want to marry me? It would take years and years for
you to become naturalist enough to support a wife."

"I have made no plans," he said, quickly, "I have no purpose. I did not
intend to tell you now that I love you, but since I have said that, I will
say also that with you to fight for there could be no doubt about my
success. I should be bound to succeed. It would be impossible for me to
fail. As for the years, I would wait, no matter how many they should be."

He spoke with such hot earnestness that Margery involuntarily drew herself
a little away from him. At this the flush went out of his face.

"Oh, Miss Dearborn," he exclaimed, "don't think that I am like that man
out there! Don't think that I will persecute you if you don't wish to hear
me; that I will follow you about and make your life miserable. If you say
to me that you do not wish to see me again, you will never see me again.
Say what you please, and you will find that I am a gentleman."

She could see that now. She felt sure that if she told him she did not
wish ever to see him again he would never appear before her. But what
would he do? She was not in the least afraid of him, but his fierce
earnestness frightened her, not for herself, but for him. Suddenly a
thought struck her.

"Martin," said she, "I don't doubt in the least that what you have said to
me about yourself is true. You are as good as other people, although you
do happen now to be a guide, and perhaps after a while you may be very
well off; but for all that you are a guide, and you are in Mr. Sadler's
employment, and Mr. Sadler's rights and powers are just like gas escaping
from a pipe: they are everywhere from cellar to garret, so to speak, and
you couldn't escape them. It would be a bad, bad thing for you, Martin, if
he were to hear that you make propositions of the kind you have made to
the ladies that he pays you to take out into the woods to guide and to
protect."

Martin was on the point of a violent expostulation, but she stopped him.

"Now I know what you are going to say," she exclaimed, "but it isn't of
any use. You are in his employment, and you are bound to honor and to
respect him; that is the way a guide can show himself to be a gentleman."

"But suppose," said Martin, quickly, "that he, knowing my family as he
does, should think I had done wisely in speaking to you."

A cloud came over her brow. It annoyed her that he should thus parry her
thrust.

"Well, you can ask him," she said, abruptly; "and if he doesn't object,
you can go to see my mother, when she gets home, and ask her. And here
comes Mr. Matlack. I think he has been calling you. Now don't say another
word, unless it is about fish."

But Matlack did not come; he stopped and called, and Martin went to him.

Margery walked languidly towards the woods and sat down on the projecting
root of a large tree. Then leaning back against the trunk, she sighed.

"It is a perfectly dreadful thing to be a girl," she said; "but I am glad
I did not speak to him as I did to Mr. Raybold. I believe he would have
jumped into the lake."




CHAPTER XXI

THE INDIVIDUALITY OF PETER SADLER


"Martin," said Matlack, sharply, before the young man had reached him, "it
seems to me that you think that you have been engaged here as lady's-maid,
but there's other things to do besides teaching young women about trees
and fishes. If you think," continued Matlack, when the two had reached the
woodland kitchen, "that your bein' a hermit is goin' to let you throw all
the work on me, you're mistaken. There's a lot of potatoes that's got to
be peeled for dinner."

Without a word Martin sat down on the ground with a pan of potatoes in
front of him and began to work. Had he been a proud crusader setting forth
to fight the Saracens his blood could not have coursed with greater warmth
and force, his soul could not have more truly spurned the earth and all
the common things upon it. What he had said to Margery had made him feel
ennobled. If Raybold had that instant appeared before him with some
jeering insult, Martin would have pardoned him with lofty scorn; and yet
he peeled potatoes, and did it well. But his thoughts were not upon his
work; they were upon the future which, if he proved himself to be the man
he thought himself to be, might open before him. When he had finished the
potatoes he put the pan upon a table and stood near by, deep in thought.

"Yes," said he to himself, "I should go now. After what I have said to her
I cannot stay here and live this life before her. I would wait on her with
bended knee at every step, but with love for her in my soul I cannot wash
dishes for other people. I have spoken, and now I must act; and the
quicker the better. If all goes well I may be here again, but I shall not
come back as a guide." Then a thought of Raybold crossed his mind, but he
put it aside. Even if he stayed here he could not protect her, for she had
shown that she did not wish him to do it in the only way he could do it,
and he felt sure, too, that any further annoyance would result in an
appeal to Mr. Archibald.

"Well," said Matlack, sharply, "what's the matter with you? Don't you
intend to move?"

"Yes," said Martin, turning quickly, "I do intend to move. I am going to
leave this camp just as soon as I can pack my things."

"And where in the name of thunder are you goin' to?"

"I'm going to Sadler's," said Martin.

"What for?"

"On my own business," was the reply.

Matlack looked at him for a moment suspiciously. "Have you got any
complaints to make of me?" he said.

"No," said Martin, promptly, "not one; but I have affairs on hand which
will take me off immediately."

"Before dinner?" asked Matlack.

"Yes," said the other, "before dinner; now."

"Go ahead then," said Matlack, putting some sticks of wood into the stove;
"and tell Sadler that if he don't send me somebody before supper-time to
help about this camp, he'll see me. I'll be hanged," he said to himself,
as he closed the door of the stove, "if this isn't hermitism with a
vengeance. I wonder who'll be the next one to cut and run; most likely it
will be Mrs. Perkenpine."

Early in the afternoon, warm and dusty, Martin presented himself before
Peter Sadler, who was smoking his pipe on the little shaded piazza at the
back of the house.

"Oh, ho!" said Peter. "How in the name of common-sense did you happen to
turn up at this minute? This is about as queer a thing as I've known of
lately. What did you come for? Sit down."

"Mr. Sadler," said Martin, "I have come here on most important business."

"Lake dry?" asked Peter.

"It is a matter," said Martin, "which concerns myself; and if all the
lakes in the world were dry, I would not be able to think about them, so
full is my soul of one thing."

"By the Lord Harry," said Peter, "let's have it, quick!"

In a straightforward manner, but with an ardent vehemence which he could
not repress, Martin stated his business with Peter Sadler. He told him how
he loved Margery, what he had said to her, and what she had said to him.

"And now," said the young man, "I have come to ask your permission to
address her; but whether you give it or not I shall go to her mother and
speak to her. I know her address, and I intend to do everything in an
honorable way."

Peter Sadler put down his pipe and looked steadfastly at the young man. "I
wish to Heaven," said he, "that there was a war goin' on! I'd write a
letter to the commander-in-chief and let you take it to him, and I'd tell
him you was the bravest man between Hudson Bay and Patagonia. By George! I
can't understand it! I can't understand how you could have the cheek, the
unutterable brass, to come here and ask me--me, Peter Sadler--to let you
court one of the ladies in a campin'-party of mine. And, what's more, I
can't understand how I can sit here and hear you tell me that tale without
picking up a chair and knocking you down with it."

"Mr. Sadler," said Martin, rising, "I have spoken to you fairly and
squarely, and if that's all you've got to say, I will go."

"Sit down!" roared Peter, bringing his hand upon the table as if he would
drive it's legs through the floor. "Sit down, and listen to what I have to
say to you. It's the strangest thing that ever happened to me that I am
not more angry with you than I am; but I can't understand it, and I pass
it by. Now that you are seated again, I will make some remarks on my side.
Do you see that?" said he, picking up a letter on the table. "Do you see
who it is addressed to?"

"To me!" exclaimed Martin, in surprise.

"Yes, it's to you," said Peter, "and I wrote it, and I intended to send it
by Bill Hammond this afternoon. That's the reason I was surprised when I
saw you here. But I'm not goin' to give it to you; I'd rather tell you
what's in it, now you are here. Before I knew you were the abject
ninnyhammer that you have just told me you are I had a good opinion of
you, and thought that you were cut out to make a first-class traveller and
explorer--the sort of a fellow who could lead a surveying expedition
through the wilderness, or work up new countries and find out what they
are made of and what's in them. Only yesterday I heard of a chance that
ought to make you jump, and this morning I wrote to you about it. A friend
of mine, who's roughed it with me for many a day, is goin' to take an
expedition down into New Mexico in the interests of a railroad and minin'
company. They want to know everything about the country--the game, fish,
trees, and plants, as well as the minerals--and it struck me that if you
are not just the kind of man they want you could make yourself so in a
very short time. They'd pay you well enough, and you'd have a chance to
dip into natural history, and all that sort of thing, that you had no
reason to expect for a dozen years to come, if it ever came. If such a
chance had been offered to me at your age I wouldn't have changed lots
with a king. All you've got to do is to pack up and be off. The party
starts from New York in just three days; I'll give you a letter to Joe
Hendricks, and that'll be all you want. He knows me well enough to take
you without a word. If you haven't got money enough saved to fit yourself
out for the trip I'll lend you some, and you can pay me back when they pay
you. You can take the train this afternoon and maybe you can see Hendricks
to-night. So pack up what you want and leave what you don't want, and I'll
take care of it. I'll write to Hendricks now."

Many times did the face of Martin flush and pale as he listened. A vision
of Paradise had been opened before him, but he felt that he must shut his
eyes.

"Mr. Sadler," he said, "you are very kind. You offer me a great thing--a
thing which two weeks ago I should have accepted in the twinkling of an
eye, and would have thanked you for all the rest of my life; but I cannot
take it now. With all my heart I love a woman; I have told her so, and I
am now going on the path she told me to take. I cannot turn aside from
that for any prospects in the world."

Peter Sadler's face grew red, and then it grew black, and then it turned
red again, and finally resumed its ordinary brown.

"Martin Sanders," said he, speaking quietly, but with one hand fastened
upon the arm of his chair with a grasp which a horse could not have
loosened, "if you are cowardly enough and small enough and paltry enough
to go to a girl who is living in peace and comfort and ask her to marry
you, when you know perfectly well that for years to come you could not
give her a decent roof over her head, and that if her family wanted her to
live like a Christian they would have to give her the money to do it with;
and if you are fool enough not to know that when she sent you first to me
and then to her mother she was tryin' to get rid of you without hurtin'
your feelin's, why, then, I want you to get out of my sight, and the
quicker the better. But if you are not so low down as that, go to your
room and pack up your bag. The coach will start for the train at three
o'clock, and it is now nearly half-past two; that will just give me time
to write to Hendricks. Go!"

Martin rose. Whatever happened afterwards, he must go now. It seemed to
him as if the whole world had suddenly grown colder; as if he had been
floating in a fog and had neared an iceberg. Could it be possible that she
had spoken, as she had spoken, simply to get rid of him? He could not
believe it. No one with such honest eyes could speak in that way; and yet
he did not know what to believe.

In any case, he would go away in the coach. He had spoken to Sadler, and
now, whether he spoke to any one else or not, the sooner he left the
better.

When he came to take the coach, Peter Sadler, who had rolled himself to
the front of the house, handed him the letter he had written.

"I believe you are made of the right kind of stuff," he said, "although
you've got a little mouldy by bein' lazy out there in the woods, but
you're all right now; and what you've got to do is to go ahead with a
will, and, take my word for it, you'll come out on top. Do you want any
money? No? Very well, then, goodbye. You needn't trouble yourself to write
to me, I'll hear about you from Hendricks; and I'd rather know what he
thinks about you than what you think about yourself."

"How little you know," thought Martin, as he entered the coach, "what I am
or what I think about myself. As if my purpose could be changed by words
of yours!" And he smiled a smile which would have done justice to Arthur
Raybold. The chill had gone out of him; he was warm again.

On the train he read the letter to Hendricks which Peter Sadler had given
to him unsealed. It was a long letter, and he read it twice. Then he sat
and gazed out of the window at the flying scenery for nearly half an hour,
after which he read the letter again. Then he folded it up and put it into
his pocket.

"If she had given me the slightest reason to hope," he said to himself,
"how easy it would be to tear this letter into scraps."

Now an idea came into his mind. If he could see her mother quickly, and if
she should ignore his honorable intentions and refuse to give him the
opportunity to prove that he was worthy of a thought from her and her
daughter, then it might not be too late to fall back on Peter Sadler's
letter. But he shook his head; that would be dishonorable and unworthy of
him.

He shut his eyes; he could not bear to look at the brightness of the world
outside the window of the car. Under his closed lids there came to him
visions, sometimes of Margery and sometimes of the forests of New Mexico.
Sometimes the visions were wavering, uncertain, and transitory, and again
they were strong and vivid--so plain to him that he could almost hear the
leaves rustle as some wild creature turned a startled look upon him.

That night he delivered his letter to Mr. Hendricks.




CHAPTER XXII

A TRANQUILLIZING BREEZE AND A HOT WIND


After Martin had left her, Margery sat on the root of the tree until Mr.
Clyde came up and said he had been wondering what had become of her.

"I have been wondering that, myself," she said. "At least, I have been
wondering what is going to become of me."

"Don't you intend to be a hermit?" said he.

She shook her head. "I don't think it is possible," she answered. "There
is no one who is better satisfied to be alone, and who can make herself
happier all by herself, and who, in all sorts of ways, can get along
better without other people than I can, and yet other people are
continually interfering with me, and I cannot get away from them."

Clyde smiled. "That is a pretty plain hint," he said. "I suppose I might
as well take it, and go off to some hermitage of my own."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Margery. "Don't be so awfully quick in coming to
conclusions. I do feel worried and troubled and bothered, and I want some
one to talk to; not about things which worry me, of course, but about
common, ordinary things, that will make me forget."

A slight shade came over the face of Mr. Clyde, and he seated himself on
the ground near Margery. "It is a shame," said he, "that you should be
worried. What is it in this peaceable, beautiful forest troubles you?"

"Did you ever hear of a paradise without snakes?" she asked. "The very
beauty of it makes them come here."

"I have never yet known any paradise at all," he replied. "But can't you
tell me what it is that troubles you?"

Margery looked at him with her clear, large eyes. "I'll tell you," she
said, "if you will promise not to do a single thing without my
permission."

"I promise that," said Clyde, eagerly.

"I am troubled by people making love to me."

"People!" exclaimed Clyde, with a puzzled air.

"Yes," said she. "Your cousin is one of them."

"I might have supposed that; but who on earth can be the other one?"

"That is Martin," said Margery.

For a moment Mr. Clyde did not seem to understand, and then he exclaimed:
"You don't mean the young man who cuts wood and helps Matlack?"

"Yes, I do," she answered. "And you need not shut your jaw hard and grit
your teeth that way. That is exactly what he did when he found out about
Mr. Raybold. It is of no use to get angry, for you can't do anything
without my permission; and, besides, I tell you that if I were condemned
by a court to be made love to, I would much rather have Martin make it
than Mr. Raybold. Martin is a good deal more than a guide; he has a good
education, and would not be here if it were not for his love of nature. He
is going to make nature his object in life, and there is something noble
in that; a great deal better than trying to strut about on the stage."

"And those two have really been making love to you?" asked Clyde.

"Yes, really," she answered. "You never saw people more in earnest in all
your life. As for Mr. Raybold, he was as earnest as a cat after a bird. He
made me furiously angry. Martin was different. He is just as earnest, but
he is more of a gentleman; and when I told him what I wanted him to do, he
said he would do it. But there is no use in telling your cousin what I
want him to do. He is determined to persecute me and make me miserable,
and there is no way of stopping it, except by making a quarrel between him
and Uncle Archibald. It is a shame!" she went on, "Who could have thought
that two people would have turned up to disturb me in this way."

"Margery," said Mr. Clyde, and although he called her by her Christian
name she took no notice of it, "you think you have too many lovers: but
you are mistaken. You have not enough; you ought to have three."

She looked at him inquiringly.

"Yes," he said, quickly, "and I want to be the third."

"And so make matters three times as bad as they were at first?" she
asked.

"Not at all," said he. "When you have chosen one of them, he could easily
keep away the two others."

"Do you mean," said Margery, "that if I were to agree to have three, and
then, if I were to ask you to do it, you would go away quietly with one of
the others and leave me in peace with the third one?"

Mr. Clyde half smiled, but instantly grew serious again, and a flush came
on his face. "Margery," said he, "I cannot bear trifling any more about
this. No matter what anybody has said to you, whether it is any one in
this camp or any one out of it, there is not a man in this world who--"

"Oh, Mr. Clyde," interrupted Margery, "you must not sit there and speak to
me in such an excited way. If any one should see us they would think we
were quarrelling. Let us go down to the lake; the air from the water is
cool and soothing."

Together they walked from under the shade of the tree, and so wended their
way that it brought them to a mass of shrubbery which edged the water a
little distance down the lake. On the other side of this shrubbery was a
pretty bank, which they had seen before.

"It always tranquillizes me," said Margery, as they stood side by side on
the bank, "to look out over the water. Doesn't it have that effect on
you?"

"No!" exclaimed Clyde. "It does not tranquillize me a bit. Nothing could
tranquillize me at a moment like this. Margery, I want you to know that I
love you. I did not intend to tell you so soon, but what you have said
makes it necessary. I have loved you ever since I met you at Peter
Sadler's, and, no matter what you say about it, I shall love you to the
end of my life."

"Even if I should send you away with one of the others?"

"Yes; no matter what you did."

"That would be wrong," she said.

"It doesn't matter. Right or wrong, I'd do it."

Margery gave him a glance from which it would have been impossible to
eliminate all signs of admiration. "And if I were to arrange it
otherwise," she said, "would you undertake to keep the others away?"

There was no answer to this question, but in a minute afterwards Clyde
exclaimed: "Do you think any one would dare to come near you if they saw
you now?"

"Hardly," said Margery, raising her head from his shoulder and looking up
into his sparkling eyes. "Really, Harrison, you ought not to speak in such
a loud voice. If Aunt Harriet were to hear you she might dare to come."

Margery was late to dinner, although the horn was blown three times.

Much to the surprise of his wife, Mr. Archibald returned to camp about an
hour before dinner.

"How is this?" she exclaimed. "Wasn't the fishing good?"

"I have had a disagreeable experience," he said, "and I will tell you
about it. I was fishing in a little cove some distance down the lake and
having good sport, when I heard a thumping, and looking around I saw
Raybold in a boat rowing towards me. I suppose he thought he was rowing,
but he was really floating with the current; but as he neared me he
suddenly pulled his boat towards me with such recklessness that I was
afraid he would run into me. I considered his rowing into the cove to be a
piece of bad manners, for of course it would spoil my fishing, but I had
no idea he actually intended to lay alongside of me. This he did, however,
and so awkwardly that his boat struck mine with such force that it half
tipped it over. Then he lay hold of my gunwale, and said he had something
to say to me.

"I was as angry as if a man in the street had knocked my hat down over my
eyes and said that he did so in order to call my attention to a
subscription paper. But this indignation was nothing to what I felt when
the fellow began to speak. I cannot repeat his words, but he stated his
object at once, and said that as this was a good opportunity to speak to
me alone, he wished to ask me to remove what he called the utterly useless
embargo which I had placed upon him in regard to Margery. He said it was
useless because he could not be expected to give up his hopes and his
plans simply because I objected to them; and he went on to say that if I
understood him fully, and if Margery understood him, he did not believe
that either of us would object. And then he actually asked me to use my
influence with her to make her listen to him. From what he said, I am sure
he has been speaking to her. I did not let him finish, but turned and
blazed at him in words as strong as would come to me. I ordered him never
to speak to me again or show himself in my camp, and told him that if he
did either of these things he would do them at his peril; and then, for
fear he might say something which would make me lose control of myself, I
jerked up my anchor and rowed away from him. I didn't feel like fishing
any more, and so I came back."

"His behavior is shameful," said Mrs. Archibald. "And what is more, it is
ridiculous, for Margery would not look at him. What sort of a man does he
think you are, to suppose that you would give your permission to any one,
no matter who he might be, to offer marriage to a young lady in your
charge? But what are you going to do about it? I think it very likely he
will come to this camp, and he may speak to you."

"In that case I shall have him driven out," said Mr. Archibald, "as if he
were a drunken vagabond. Personally I shall have nothing to do with him,
but I shall order my guides to eject him."

"I hope that may not be necessary," said his wife. "It would make bad
feeling, and deeply wound his sister, for it would be the same thing as
putting her out. She talks too much, to be sure, but she is a lady, and
has treated us all very courteously. I wish we could get through the rest
of our stay here without any disturbance or bad feeling."

"I wish so too, with all my heart," said her husband. "And the only thing
necessary to that end is that that ass Raybold shall keep out of my
sight."

It was about two o'clock that afternoon, and Mrs. Archibald, under her
tree, her basket of stockings all darned and her novel at its culminating
point of interest, was the only visible occupant of Camp Rob, when Corona
Raybold came walking towards her, an obvious purpose in her handsome face,
which was somewhat flushed by exercise.

"I do not think," she said, as soon as she was near enough for Mrs.
Archibald to hear her, "that the true purpose and intention of our plan is
properly understood by all of the party. I think, after some explanation,
everything will go well, but I have been endeavoring for the last
half-hour to find Mrs. Perkenpine, and have utterly failed. I am very
hungry, but I can discover nothing to eat. All our stores appear to be
absolutely raw, or in some intermediate state of crudity. I intend to
order some provisions in cans or boxes which will be at all times
available, but I have not done so yet, and so I have come over to speak to
you about the matter. Did your guides prepare your dinner as usual?"

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Archibald. "A hermit life seems to make no difference
with Mr. Matlack. We become associates at meal-times, but, as you see, we
have separated again."

"I must instil into Mrs. Perkenpine's mind," said Corona, "that, in order
thoroughly to act out her own nature, she must cook and do other things of
a domestic character. Of course she will do those things in her own way;
that is to be expected; but she must do them. It is impossible to imagine
a woman of her class whose soul is not set more or less upon domestic
affairs. I will instance Mr. Matlack. His nature belongs to the woods and
the out-of-door world, and that nature prompts him to cook what he
shoots."

Mrs. Archibald laughed. "I think his nature is a very good one," she said,
"and I will go with you to find him and see if he cannot give you a
luncheon, if not a dinner."

"Thank you very much," said Corona; "but indeed I do not wish to trouble
you. I will go to him myself. You are very kind, but it is not in the
least degree necessary for you to accompany me. A cup of tea and some
little trifle is all I shall ask him for."

For a moment Mrs. Archibald hesitated, and then she said, "As we are
hermits, I suppose we must not keep together any more than we can help,
and so I will let you go alone."

Corona found Phil Matlack by his kitchen tent, busily engaged in rubbing
the inside of a large kettle. He was not in a good humor. The departure of
Martin had thrown all the work of his camp upon him, and now the
appearance of a person from another camp requesting to be fed aroused him
to absolute anger. He did not scold, for it would have been impossible to
look at that beautiful and imperturbable face and say hard words to it. He
did not refuse the cup of tea or the bread-and-butter for which he was
asked, and he even added some cold meat; but he indignantly made up his
mind that he would stand no more of this nonsense, and that if necessary
he would go to Sadler and throw up the job. He had not engaged to cook for
three camps.

[Illustration: "'HAVEN'T TRIED IT'"]

Miss Raybold did not appear to notice his state of mind, and ate heartily.
She thought it was fortunate that he happened to have the kettle on the
stove, and she asked him how he liked the hermit life--the living for
himself alone.

"Haven't tried it," he answered, curtly.

"I understand," said Corona, "you have had to live too much for other
people; but it is too soon to expect our plan to run smoothly. In a short
time, however, we shall be better able to know our own natures and show
them to others."

"Oh, I can do that," said he; "and I am goin' to, precious soon."

"I have no doubt of it," she answered. "And now can you tell me where Mr.
Archibald has gone? I did not see him this morning, and there are some
matters I wish to speak to him about."

"No, miss," said Matlack, promptly, "I don't know where he is. He's a real
hermit. He's off by himself, most likely miles away."

Corona reflected. "Mr.--the bishop? Have you seen him? He may be able
to--"

The guide grinned grimly. He had seen the man of muscle--not
fat--conversing that morning with Corona, and an hour afterwards he had
seen him, not in the same place, but in the same companionship, and it
gave him a certain pleasure to know that the man who could heave rocks and
break young trees could not relieve himself from the thralls of the lady
of the flowing speech.

"The bishop?" said he. "Don't you know where he went to?"

"He left me," she answered, "because he was obliged to go to prepare
dinner for my brother and Mr. Clyde; but he is not in Camp Roy now, for I
went there to look for Mrs. Perkenpine."

"Well," said the wicked Matlack, pointing to the spot where, not long
before, Margery had found a tranquillizing breeze, "I saw him going along
with a book a little while ago, and I think he went down to the shore,
just beyond that clump of bushes over there. He seems to be a man who
likes readin', which isn't a bad thing for a hermit."

"Thank you," said Miss Raybold, rising. "I do not care for anything more.
You are very kind, and I am quite sure I shall not have to trouble you
again. To-morrow everything will be running smoothly."

Matlack looked at her as she quietly walked away. "She's a pretty sort of
a hermit," he said to himself. "If she really had to live by herself she'd
cut out a wooden man and talk to it all day. It won't be long before she
accidentally stumbles over that big fellow with his book."




CHAPTER XXIII

MRS. PERKENPINE FINDS OUT THINGS ABOUT HERSELF


The mind of the guide was comforted and relieved that he had got the
better of the bishop in one way, although he could not do it in another.
But he did not relinquish his purpose of putting an end to the nonsense
which made him do the work of other people, and as soon as he had set his
kitchen in order he started out to find Mrs. Perkenpine. A certain amount
of nonsense from the people in camp might have to be endured, but nonsense
from Mrs. Perkenpine was something about which Peter Sadler would have a
word to say.

Matlack was a good hunter. He could follow all sorts of tracks--rabbit
tracks, bird tracks, deer tracks, and the tracks of big ungainly
shoes--and in less than half an hour he had reached a cluster of
moss-covered rocks lying some distance back in the woods, and approached
by the bed of a now dry stream. Sitting on one of these rocks, her back
against a tree, her straw hat lying beside her, and her dishevelled hair
hanging about her shoulders, was Mrs. Perkenpine, reading a newspaper. At
the sound of his footsteps she looked up.

"Well, I'll be bound!" she said. "If I'd crawl into a fox-hole I expect
you'd come and sniff in after me."

Matlack stood and looked at her for a moment. He could not help smiling at
the uncomfortable manner in which she was trying to make herself
comfortable on those rough rocks.

"I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Perkenpine," he said, "you'll get yourself
into the worst kind of a hole if you go off this way, leavin' everything
at sixes and sevens behind you."

"It's my nater," said she. "I'm findin' it out and gittin' it ready to
show to other people. You're the fust one that's seed it. How do you like
it?"

"I don't like it at all," said the guide, "and I have just come to tell
you that if you don't go back to your tent and cook supper to-night and
attend to your business, I'll walk over to Sadler's, and tell Peter to
send some one in your place. I'm goin' over there anyway, if he don't send
a man to take Martin's place."

"Peter Sadler!" ejaculated Mrs. Perkenpine, letting her tumbled newspaper
fall into her lap. "He's a man that knows his own nater, and lets other
people see it. He lives his own life, if anybody does. He's individdle
down to the heels, and just look at him! He's the same as a king. I tell
you, Phil Matlack, that the more I knows myself, just me, the more I'm
tickled. It seems like scootin' round in the woods, findin' all sorts of
funny hoppin' things and flowers that you never seed before. Why, it
'ain't been a whole day since I begun knowin' myself, and I've found out
lots. I used to think that I liked to cook and clean up, but I don't; I
hate it."

Matlack smiled, and taking out his pipe, he lighted it and sat down on a
rock.

"I do believe," he said, "that you are the most out and out hermit of the
whole lot; but it won't do, and if you don't get over your objections to
cookin' you'll have to walk out of these woods to-morrow."

Mrs. Perkenpine sat and looked at her companion a few moments without
giving any apparent heed to his remarks.

"Of course," said she, "it isn't only findin' out what you be yourself,
but it's lettin' other people see what you be. If you didn't do that it
would be like a pot a-b'ilin' out in the middle of a prairie, with nobody
nearer nor a hundred miles."

"It would be the same as if it hadn't b'iled," remarked Matlack.

"That's jest it," said she, "and so I ain't sorry you come along, Phil,
so's I can tell you some things I've found out about myself. One of them
is that I like to lie flat on my back and look up at the leaves of the
trees and think about them."

"What do you think?" asked Matlack.

"I don't think nothin'," said she. "Just as soon as I begin to look at
them wrigglin' in the wind, and I am beginnin' to wonder what it is I
think about them, I go slam bang to sleep, and when I wake up and try to
think again what it is I think, off I go again. But I like it. If I don't
know what it is I think, I ought to know that I don't know it. That's what
I call bein' really and truly a hermick."

"What else did you find out?" inquired Matlack.

"I found out," she answered, with animation, "that I admire to read
anecdotes. I didn't know I cared a pin for anecdotes until I took to
hermickin'. Now here's this paper; it came 'round the cheese, and it's got
a good many anecdotes scattered about in it. Let me read one of them to
you. It's about a man who made his will and afterwards was a-drivin' a
horse along a road, and the horse got skeered and ran over his executor,
who was takin' a walk. Then he sung out, 'Oh, bless my soul!' says he. But
I'll read you the rest if I can find it."

"Never mind about the anecdote," said Matlack, who knew very well that it
would take Mrs. Perkenpine half an hour to spell out twenty lines in a
newspaper. "What I want to know is if you found out anything about
yourself that's likely to give you a boost in the direction of that
cookin'-stove of yourn."

Mrs. Perkenpine was a woman whose remarks did not depend upon the remarks
of others. "Phil Matlack," said she, gazing fixedly at his pipe, "if I had
a man I'd let him smoke just as much as he pleased and just where he
pleased. He could smoke afore he got up, and he could smoke at his meals,
and he could smoke after he went to bed, and, if he fancied that sort of
thing, he could smoke at family prayers; it wouldn't make no difference to
me, and I wouldn't say a word to him agin' it. If that was his
individdlety, I'd say viddle."

"And how about everything else?" asked Matlack. "Would you tell him to
cook his own victuals and mend his clothes accordin' to his own nater?"

"No, sir," said she, striking with her expansive hand the newspaper in her
lap--"no, sir. I'd get up early in the mornin', and cook and wash and bake
and scour. I'd skin the things he shot, and clean his fish, and dig bait
if he wanted it. I'd tramp into the woods after him, and carry the gun and
the victuals and fishin'-poles, and I'd set traps and row a boat and build
fires, and let him go along and work out his own nater smokin' or in any
other way he was born to. That's the biggest thing I've found out about
myself. I never knowed, until I began, this mornin', explorin' of my own
nater, what a powerful hard thing it is, when I'm thinkin' of my own
individdlety, to keep somebody else's individdlety from poppin' up in
front of it, and so says I to myself, 'If I can think of both them
individdleties at the same time it will suit me fust-rate.' And when you
come along I thought I'd let you know what sort of a nater I've got, for
it ain't likely you'd ever find it out for yourself. And now that we're in
that business--"

"Hello!" cried Matlack, springing to his feet. "There is somebody callin'
me. Who's there?" he shouted, stepping out into the bed of the stream.

A call was now heard, and in a few moments the bishop appeared some
distance below.

"Mr. Matlack," he said, "there's a man at your camp inquiring for you. He
came from Sadler's, and I've been looking high and low for you."

"A man from Sadler's," said Matlack, turning to Mrs. Perkenpine, "and I
must be off to see him. Remember what I told you about the supper." And so
saying, he walked rapidly away.

Out in the open Matlack found the bishop. "Obliged to you for lookin' me
up," he said, "it's a pity to give you so much trouble."

"Oh, don't mention it!" exclaimed the bishop. "You cannot understand,
perhaps, not knowing the circumstances, but I assure you I never was more
obliged to any one than to that man who wants to see you and couldn't find
you. There was no one else to look for you, and I simply had to go."

"You are not goin' to walk back to camp?" inquired Matlack.

"No," replied the bishop, "now that I am here, I think I will go up the
lake and try to find a very secluded spot in the shade and take a nap."

The guide smiled as he walked away. "Don't understand!" said he. "You've
got the boot on the wrong leg."

Arrived at his tent, Matlack found Bill Hammond, a young man in Sadler's
service, who informed him that that burly individual had sent Martin away
in the stage-coach, and had ordered him to come and take his place.

"All right," said Matlack. "I guess you're as good as he was, and so you
can settle down to work. By-the-way, do you know that we are all hermits
here?"

"Hermits?" said the other. "What's that?"

"Why, hermits," said Matlack, "is individ'als who get up early in the
mornin' and attend to their own business just as hard as they can, without
lookin' to the right or left, until it's time to go to bed."

The young man looked at him in some surprise. "There's nothing so very
uncommon in that," said he.

"No," replied the guide, "perhaps there ain't. But as you might hear them
talkin' about hermits here, I thought I'd tell you just what sort of
things they are."




CHAPTER XXIV

A DISSOLVING AUDIENCE


When a strange young man assisted Matlack at the supper-table that
evening, Mr. Archibald asked what had become of Martin.

"Peter Sadler has sent him away," answered the guide. "I don't know where
he sent him or what he sent him for. But he's a young man who's above this
sort of business, and so I suppose he's gone off to take up something
that's more elevated."

"I am sorry," said Mrs. Archibald, "for I liked him."

Mr. Archibald smiled. "This business of insisting upon our own
individualities," he said, "seems to have worked very promptly in his
case. I suppose he found out he was fitted for something better than a
guide, and immediately went off to get that better thing."

"That's about the size of it," said Matlack.

Margery said nothing. Her heart sank. She could not help feeling that what
she had said to the young man had been the cause of his sudden departure.
Could he have done such a thing, she thought, as really to go and ask Mr.
Sadler, and, having found he did not mind, could he have gone to see her
mother? Her appetite for her supper departed, and she soon rose and
strolled away, and as she strolled the thought came again to her that it
was a truly dreadful thing to be a girl.

Having received no orders to the contrary, Matlack, with his new
assistant, built and lighted the camp-fire. Some of the hermits took this
as a matter of course, and some were a little surprised, but one by one
they approached; the evening air was beginning to be cool, and the
vicinity of the fire was undoubtedly the pleasantest place in camp. Soon
they were all assembled but one, and Mrs. Archibald breathed freer when
she found that Arthur Raybold was not there.

"I am delighted," said Corona, as soon as she took her usual seat, which
was a camp-chair, "to see you all gather about the fire. I was afraid that
some of you might think that because we are hermits we must keep away from
each other all the time. But we must remember that we are associate
hermits, and so should come together occasionally. I was going to say
something to the effect that some of us may have misunderstood the true
manner and intent of the assertions of our individualities, but I do not
now believe that this is necessary."

"Do you mean by all that," said Mrs. Perkenpine, "that I cooked the
supper?"

"Yes," said Miss Raybold, turning upon her guide with a pleasant smile,
"that is what I referred to."

"Well," said Mrs. Perkenpine, "I was told that if I didn't cook I'd be
bounced. It isn't my individdlety to cook for outsiders, but it isn't my
individdlety to be bounced, nuther, so I cooked. Is that bein' a
hermick?"

"You have it," cried Mr. Archibald, "you've not only found out what you
are, but what you have to be. Your knowledge of yourself is perfect. And
now," he continued, "isn't there somebody who can tell us a story? When we
are sitting around a camp-fire, there is nothing better than stories.
Bishop, I dare say you have heard a good many in the course of your life.
Don't you feel like giving us one?"

"I think," said Corona, "that by the aid of stories it is possible to
get a very good idea of ourselves. For instance, if some one were to
tell a good historical story, and any one of us should find himself or
herself greatly interested in it, then that person might discover, on
subsequent reflection, some phase of his or her intellect which he or she
might not have before noticed. On the other hand, if it should be a
love story, and some of us could not bear to hear it, then we might
also find out something about ourselves of which we had been ignorant.
But I really think that, before making any tests of this sort, we
should continue the discussion of what is at present the main object
of our lives--self-knowledge and self-assertion. In other words, the
emancipation of the individual. As I have said before, and as we all
know, there never was a better opportunity offered a group of people
of mature minds to subject themselves, free of outside influences, to a
thorough mental inquisition, and then to exhibit the results of their
self-examinations to appreciative companions. This last is very important.
If we do not announce to others what we are, it is of scarcely any use to
be anything. I mean this, of course, in a limited sense."

"Harriet," said Mr. Archibald, abruptly, "do you remember where I left my
pipe? I do not like this cigar."

"On the shelf by the door of the cabin," she replied. "I saw it as I came
out."

Her husband immediately rose and left the fire. Corona paused in her
discourse to wait until Mr. Archibald came back; but then, as if she did
not wish to lose the floor, she turned towards the bishop, who sat at a
little distance from her, and addressed herself to him, with the idea of
making some collateral remarks on what she had already said, in order to
fill up the time until Mr. Archibald should return.

Mrs. Archibald thought that her husband had been a little uncivil; but
almost immediately after he had gone, she, too, jumped up, and, without
making any excuse whatever, hurried after him.

The reason for this sudden movement was that Mrs. Archibald had seen some
one approaching from the direction of Camp Roy. She instantly recognized
this person as Arthur Raybold, and felt sure that, unwilling to stay
longer by himself, he was coming to the camp-fire, and if her husband
should see him, she knew there would be trouble. What sort of trouble or
how far it might extend she did not try to imagine.

"Hector," she said, as soon as she was near enough for him to hear her,
"don't go after the pipe; let us take a moonlight walk along the shore. I
believe it is full moon to-night, and we have not had a walk of that sort
for ever so long."

"Very good," said her husband, turning to her. "I shall be delighted. I
don't care for the pipe, and the cigar would have been good enough if it
had not been for the sermon. That would spoil any pleasure. I can't stand
that young woman, Harriet; I positively cannot."

"Well, then, let us walk away and forget her," said his wife. "I don't
wonder she annoys you."

"If it were only the young woman," thought Mrs. Archibald, as the two
strolled away beneath the light of the moon, "we might manage it. But her
brother!"

At the next indication of a pause in Corona's discourse the bishop
suddenly stood on his feet. "I wonder," he said, "if there is anything the
matter with Mrs. Archibald? I will step over to her cabin to see."

"Indeed!" said Corona, rising with great promptness, "I hope it is nothing
serious. I will go with you."

Margery was not a rude girl, but she could not help a little laugh, which
she subdued as much as possible; Mr. Clyde, who was sitting near her,
laughed also.

"There is nothing on earth the matter with Aunt Harriet," said Margery.
"They didn't go into the cabin; I saw them walking away down the shore."

"How would you like to walk that way?" he asked. "I think their example is
a very good one."

"It is capital," said Margery, jumping up, "and let's get away quickly
before she comes back."

They hurried away, but they did not extend their walk down the lake shore
even as far as Mr. and Mrs. Archibald had already gone. When they came to
the bit of beach behind the clump of trees where the bishop had retired
that afternoon to read, they stopped and sat down to watch the moonlight
on the water.

Matlack and Mrs. Perkenpine were now the only persons at the camp-fire,
for Bill Hammond, as was his custom, had promptly gone to bed as soon as
his work was done. If Arthur Raybold had intended to come to the
camp-fire, he had changed his mind, for he now stood near his sister's
tent, apparently awaiting the approach of Corona and the bishop, who had
not found the Archibalds, and who were now walking together in what might
have been supposed, by people who did not know the lady, to be an earnest
dialogue.

Mr. Matlack was seated on his log, and he smoked, while Mrs. Perkenpine
sat on the ground, her head thrown back and her arms hugging her knees.

"Phil," said she, "that there moon looks to me like an oyster with a
candle behind it, and as smooth and slippery as if I could jest swallow it
down. You may think it is queer for me to think such things as that, Phil,
but since I've come to know myself jest as I am, me, I've found out
feelin's--"

"Mrs. Perkenpine," said Matlack, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
"there's a good many things besides moons that I can't swallow, and if
it's all the same to you, I'll go to bed."

"Well," she exclaimed, looking after him, "his individdlety is the
snapshortest I ever did see! I don't believe he wants to know hisself. If
he did, I'm dead sure I could help him. He never goes out to run a camp
without somebody to help him, and yet he's so everlastin' blind he can't
see the very best person there is to help him, and she a-plumpin' herself
square in front of him every time she gits a chance." With that reflection
she rose and walked away.

"I tell you, Harriet," said Mr. Archibald, when he and his wife had
returned from their walk and were about to enter the cabin, "something
must be done to enable us to spend the rest of our time here in peace.
This is our camp, and we want it for ourselves. If a good companionable
fellow like the bishop or that young Clyde happens along, it is all very
well, but we do not want all sorts of people forcing themselves upon us,
and I will not submit to it."

"Of course we ought not to do that," said she, "but I hope that whatever
you do, it will be something as pleasant as possible."

"I will try to avoid any unpleasantness," said he, "and I hope I may do
so, but---- By-the-way, where is Margery?"

"I think she must be in bed," said Mrs. Archibald; then stepping inside,
she called, "Margery, are you there?"

"Yes, Aunt Harriet," replied Margery, "I am here."

"She must have found it dreadfully stupid, poor girl!" said Mr.
Archibald.

The lights were all out in the Archibalds' cabin, and still Miss Raybold
and the bishop walked up and down the open space at the farther end of the
camp.

"Corona!" exclaimed her brother, suddenly appearing before them, "I have
told you over and over again that I wish to speak to you. Are you never
going to stop that everlasting preaching and give me a chance to talk to
you?"