At heart, Frieda Hammer was not a bad girl. But for all these years her moral sense had remained undeveloped. She was like a man who has worked in a factory all his life, where the continuous roar of the machinery dulls his sense of hearing, so that all the finer tones are lost upon him. Frieda was so unaccustomed to the qualities of unselfishness and friendliness, that when she came in contact with them she could only mistrust them. Ruth Henry was the only member of the Girl Scout troop that she could seem to understand, for she was the only one who was out and out for herself. Marjorie Wilkinson was a puzzle to her, and always had been.

And just as the man without an ear for music would not appreciate an orchestra if he heard one, so this mentally-starved girl could not understand the charity and sweetness of the Scouts. But gradually, under the influence of her teacher, of Mrs. Johnson, and of her normal life, she began to realize what it all meant. She secretly liked Marjorie, but she was too proud to show it; instead, she decided to study hard, and bring credit to the Scouts.

All this was before the Japanese fÊte. Then, that night, like a harsh discord on one instrument breaking the harmony of an orchestra, she heard Ruth's detestable remark: "Here comes Frieda Hammer—look out for your jewelry!" her whole nature rebelled. Sick at heart, and regretting that she had ever allowed the Scouts to persuade her to leave home, she now wanted, more than anything else, to get away from them. She hated them all, Marjorie included!

Her first thought was to leave immediately for home, but upon remembering that while there she was always unhappy and wishing to be elsewhere, it occurred to her that this was her opportunity to strike out for herself. Casting about in her mind for some loophole of escape, she hit upon the plan of stealing Marjorie's canoe, paddling down the creek till it joined the river; and then, at the approach of some town, of attempting to sell it for what she could get, and continuing the remainder of her journey to New York by train. Why New York, rather than any other city, she never stopped to consider; it stood out as the one town to which anyone would wish to go.

That this way of traveling was much slower and more laborious than setting out upon foot at the outset, never occurred to her; it seemed like an easy way, less liable of detection, and it appealed to her love of adventure. Once in New York, she calculated, she would become a waitress in some "swell" restaurant, where she would make lots of money to spend for clothes. A hired girl of the Brubakers who had been a waitress in New York, once told her of the lavish tips she used to receive; and the future, as Frieda pictured it, seemed particularly rosy and independent. But to get there was the thing; once there—almost anything might happen! Why, some rich man might fall in love with her and marry her. That she was but fourteen, and neither attractive nor cultured, never entered her head; she had always longed for adventure, and she meant to have it.

Frieda would have put her plan into effect immediately, if she had only possessed a little money. As it was, she was afraid to set out with an empty purse. But when, over a week later, the Scouts sent her the cash for her ticket home at Thanksgiving, it seemed as if all obstacles were now removed.

Accordingly, she carried out her project the following day. She attended school in the morning, and came home for lunch as usual, so as not to arouse suspicion; but shortly after one o'clock, she slipped out with her bag all packed. And her most precious possessions were Marjorie's pink dress and sweater!

If she had carefully calculated her time, she could not have chosen a more favorable hour for escape. All of Miss Allen's girls, and the teachers as well, were at luncheon, and the public school children were already back at their desks. Finally, one-thirty in the afternoon was just the time that Mrs. Johnson invariably selected for her nap!

Cautiously watching the campus, she untied the rope, and stepped into the canoe. It was a simple matter to paddle across the lake to the spot where the small stream joined it; but it was a more difficult feat to carry the canoe even a short distance on dry land. Frieda Hammer was a strong girl, but had it not been for the thought of the price she could get for it, and the distress its loss would bring to the Scouts, she would have cast aside her heavy burden then and there. She wished, too, that it had belonged to Ruth instead of to Marjorie, but she kept assuring herself that she was glad to bring trouble to any member of Pansy troop.

The distance, however, was short, and in a few minutes she was back again on the water. She paddled on and on, encountering no further obstacles, but was surprised at the speed with which the afternoon seemed to pass. The shadows began to lengthen; and there was still no sight of a river. She realized that soon she would be obliged to stop for the night. Through the trees, over on the left bank of the stream, she distinguished a house. Perhaps she might rest there for the night!

It was the "haunted house" which the Scouts later visited, but Frieda did not know that. Had she heard the tale of the ghost, she would probably have hesitated before remaining there alone all night; but no such story troubled her imagination. She was thankful for the shelter and protection, for the night was chilly.

Opening her bag, she took out the hasty lunch she had packed, and ate it greedily. She was hungry and tired. A few minutes later, she was fast asleep on the floor.

She awoke at dawn, thoroughly chilled, but refreshed, nevertheless, by her night's sleep. She did not lose a moment in collecting her things, and ran down to the creek. To her joy, she found the canoe just where she had left it.

The remainder of the journey, the sale of the canoe to the boatman by the river-front, and the ride to New York, were accomplished without accident or delay, and the girl finally found herself in the great city—the place of her dreams!

Perhaps it was Frieda's good fairy, or perhaps it was the answer to Marjorie's prayers, that brought the strange girl to the attention of the Traveler's Aid agent. Confused by the crowd, dazzled by the vastness of the station, unable to tell one direction from another, she stood bewildered, seeing steps on all sides. What should she do? She hesitated; turned around, and bumped into this good friend.

"Excuse me," she said, in the manner her teacher had taught her at school, "but could you tell me of a nice boarding house? I came here to work."

The woman looked at her kindly, pitying her from the bottom of her heart. To her, she was only a child, alone, strange, in the great city of New York.

"Yes, I know of a nice boarding house," she replied. "But have you a place to work?"

"Not yet!"

"Have you any money?"

"Over thirty dollars!" replied Frieda, to whom it was a princely sum.

Frieda was grateful, indeed, to be put upon the right car, and to have in her hand the written directions to the boarding house which the agent mentioned. In a short time she was established in her room—a bare unattractive one on the fourth floor, not nearly so nice as Mrs. Johnson's, but as good as she could afford. She meant to get work at once; already she was beginning to appreciate what the Girl Scouts had done for her.

She walked the streets for ten days, without success, looking for work. And then, on the eleventh, just when her money was beginning to be exhausted, she found it. Stating her age as seventeen, she obtained a situation as waitress in an attractive little tea-room on Fifth Avenue. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have been able to get such a place, for the other girls were of a higher type, but two waitresses had developed scarlet fever, and the proprietress was encountering difficulty in replacing them.

Frieda was given a black sateen dress and a white cap and apron, and instructed in the finer points of courtesy and service. She spent some of her first wages for powder and rouge, and learned to twist her hair up, according to the prevailing fashion. On the whole, she passed very easily for seventeen or eighteen.

But as the days went by, she found her life singularly monotonous. The proprietress paid the girls small salaries, expecting them to live on tips. But Frieda Hammer received very few tips, for she was not a very successful waitress. The regular patrons avoided her table, and the newcomers were usually displeased with her service, and tipped her grudgingly, or not at all.

Then, during the Thanksgiving holidays, she saw Marjorie and Lily, and a great longing to go back seized her, a desire to study more, and to accept the friendship these Girl Scouts so generously offered. But she thought of the canoe and the money she had stolen, and, overcome with shame, she disappeared into the kitchen to prevent the girls from recognizing her.

About the middle of December she lost her situation, and was forced to seek another, without even a reference. Christmas, which on the farm had meant little except what Mrs. Brubaker had done for her family, took on a new significance as she watched the shops and the decorations, and preparations everywhere. In her imagination she saw the Christmas the Girl Scouts would have, and thought of Mrs. Johnson; and in her heart she was homesick for what might have been.

She secured a temporary position as wrapper in a department store, with the understanding that she would be dropped after Christmas.

She spent Christmas day alone in her room—a small, bare attic, for she could no longer afford the comforts of a boarding house. She would have liked to go to the movies, but with no prospect of work, and not any too much money on hand, she dared not risk the expense.

All during the following week she looked for work, but could find none; for everywhere places were discharging, instead of taking on, girls.

And then the new year brought her the letter from Marjorie!

Marjorie had pictured Frieda now as a sullen, successful, working-girl, ready to scorn any advances on her part. She dreaded lest the girl would tear up the letter before she read it. But she never thought of her hugging and kissing it, as a veritable bond between her and the rest of mankind.

Frieda read the letter over and over, gradually developing a plan. She would go back to Trenton, get work if possible, and save to buy back the canoe. Then, when it was paid for, and she had enough money, she would paddle back to Miss Allen's, return the fifteen dollars and beg the forgiveness of Marjorie and the rest of the Scouts. The thought of beginning all over again inspired her with happiness—the first real happiness she had felt since her arrival in New York!

She next discovered a way to go to Trenton by trolley; and accordingly, the next morning she paid her bill and started off. For the time being, she seemed to have forgotten Ruth Henry; all that she thought of was how Marjorie Wilkinson would receive her when she finally saw her.

She reached Trenton in the afternoon, and hunted a room. Fortunately, she still had enough money to pay in advance. Leaving her belongings, she set out in the direction of the boat-houses, to ascertain whether the canoe was still there. But on her way she passed a large mill, before the entrance of which hung a sign, "Girls Wanted;" and without a moment's hesitation she went in, and secured trial employment.

With a light heart, she crossed the bridge to the other side of the river. Walking down a short distance, she espied several old men along the shore.

"There he is!" she thought, as she caught sight of the white beard that had attracted her before. She looked around expectantly for the canoe, but did not see it among the boats.

"Good afternoon!" she said pleasantly, adopting the manner she had been taught to use in the restaurant. "Several months ago I sold you my canoe. I wonder if I could buy it back at the same price?"

The man eyed her narrowly, while his mouth curled into a snarl.

"Your canoe, eh? Your canoe! I happen to know you stole that canoe—it never was yours!"

The girl recoiled as if he had struck her. How could he know? Were policemen on her trail? She shuddered with apprehension. Then, drawing herself up with dignity, she inquired haughtily,

"And from who did you get your information?"

"A gal and two boys in an auto stopped here to fix a puncture, and suddenly the gal seen the canoe, and recognized it. 'Where'd you get that?' she asked.

"'Some gal paddled up here in it and sold it,' I replied.

"'Wal it weren't her'n to sell,' the gal says. 'She's nuthin' but a common thief—that's what she is!'

"And she paid me five dollars to save it for her, and the next day they drove up with more money, and took it away.

"Now, I ain't sayin' nuthin' on you, but I advise you not to talk about your canoe no more!"

"Oh, indeed!" said Frieda, scarcely able to choke back the tears. And, turning hastily around, she walked over to the bridge.

But she could never go back to the Scouts now; she as a "common thief;" she had better stay and work alone!