In spite of all the excitement, it was good to be home again. It was wonderful, thought Marjorie, and some of the others who went with her, to get up early in the morning and help bring the horses in; to have the free and easy companionship of these friendly people all day long; to go on beautiful rides, and see the mountains in all their glory; and, at the close of the day, to join in the games on the porch; or, later, to go for a stroll in the moonlight.

It was only when the mail came in that Marjorie and Daisy felt a tinge of unhappiness. Unconsciously, all the girls expected that in some way the mystery about Daisy’s sister would be solved, and that the news of it would come by letter. Unless, as Alice kept reminding them, they, the Girl Scouts, should have a hand in unravelling it. If only they might, Marjorie felt that it would be the crowning good turn to the troop’s history.

Marjorie felt disconcerted, too, that she had heard nothing from John Hadley. No doubt it was her own fault; the young man had written courteously to her mother after the week-end at the seashore, and probably expected her to regard that as a letter to herself. She admitted that she missed him, but she could not make up her mind to write immediately.

When the first Sunday of the scouts’ visit arrived, Mr. Hilton announced that there would be no riding; but instead the whole party would go in boats or canoes up the modest little stream not far from the ranch, and have dinner and supper out-doors.

“A canoe trip!” cried Marjorie, her mind turning immediately to the memories of the scouts’ own canoe trip two years previous. “How wonderful!”

“Don’t you wish you had The Scout here, Marj?” asked Lily, referring to the first prize that had been awarded to Pansy troop, and which had been won by Marjorie.

“Indeed I do!” replied the girl, heartily.

“But I’m sorry to have to tell you that it won’t be a canoe trip for everybody,” said Mr. Hilton. “Unfortunately we have only five small canoes, and the rest of the party will therefore have to go in row-boats.”

“Is everybody going?” asked Bob. “Naturally,” replied Kirk, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“So you think you’re everybody!” remarked Alice, turning to the young man.

“Kirk’s right,” explained Bob. “Everybody else always goes to everything, so if he decides to join the party, he knows everybody will be there. But I say, Art, it’s pretty tough about ‘the rest’ going in row-boats. I bet I know who the rest are!”

“Oh, it’s always punk to be the rancher’s son,” said Arthur, carelessly. “You just have to lose out on everything, whether it’s a matter of canoes, or pies, or girls—”

“Thank you!” interrupted Ethel. “Suppose we cancel that date for a walk tonight!”

“Now Ethel!” pleaded Arthur. “My one stroke of luck—”

“Hush!” said Mr. Hilton. “We must begin to make arrangements for our party. There are twenty-three of us, and places for ten in the canoes. I’ll put some marks on papers, and everybody except our family can draw to find out the name of their row-boat or canoe.”

Everyone seemed pleased with this idea except Marjorie, Alice and Irene. Marjorie and Alice were each afraid that their lot might be cast with Kirk Smith, and Irene was afraid that hers would not. As luck had it, Marjorie drew the unpopular man. Irene, on the other hand, was coupled with Clayton Jones, one of the Academy boys.

Marjorie frowned when the announcement was made, and Irene looked tremendously disappointed. But neither girl said anything; each started for her own cabin.

“Poor Marj!” sympathized Alice, as she took the girl’s arm; “I’m glad I’m not in your boots!”

“It is hard luck,” said Marjorie. “But then, somebody had to draw him. And I guess any of the girls would have been peeved.”

“Don’t forget Irene Judson!” said Alice. “She would probably have been tickled to death.”

The idea brought Marjorie an inspiration: why should she not exchange places with Irene, if it could be managed, and if the girl were willing? She did not remember with whom the other girl was coupled, but she knew she would prefer anyone else on the ranch to Kirk.

Accordingly she watched for her opportunity, and slipped over to Irene’s cabin. Luckily she found the girl alone, but in low spirits. She was sitting on her cot, looking most dejected, and making no attempt to dress. She raised her head as Marjorie entered, wondering resentfully what had brought her there. But before her visitor had a chance to state her errand, she gave vent to her own feelings.

“You certainly are lucky!” she exclaimed, petulantly. “I don’t think it’s fair! But if you’re mean enough to make a date with him to come home—”

Although she was amazed at the girl’s words and manner, Marjorie was delighted to learn so quickly that Irene would probably fall in with her plans. She therefore hastened to put the proposition before her, choosing to ignore the remark she had made.

“I came over, Irene,” she said, quietly, “to ask you whether you would be willing to change partners with me, if it could be managed. I don’t know whom you are going with, but—”

“One of those Academy babies!” interrupted the other girl. “Clayton Jones! I don’t suppose you’d exactly enjoy his company.”

“I’d much prefer it to Kirk’s,” Marjorie assured her.

Irene sat up straight at these words, hardly able to believe that she had heard correctly. It seemed incredible to her that any normal girl could prefer the society of a boy like Clayton Jones to that of such a distinguished-looking young man.

“Do you really mean it?” she cried. “You will actually swap?”

“I’d love to. Now—as to the method. Suppose I go down to the stream early, and run off with Clayton. Then you’ll simply have to go with Kirk because there won’t be any other place!”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Irene. She jumped up impulsively. “Oh, Marj, how can you be so generous?”

“But it isn’t generosity a bit! I’m just as well pleased as you are!”

“Well, I think it’s perfect—it will change my whole day for me. Now—will you go and arrange it with Clayton?”

Marjorie turned about, and hurried to where the boys were still standing. Drawing Clayton aside, she begged him to fall in with her plans.

“But I don’t understand!” insisted the boy. “Girls always admire Kirk Smith!”

“Well, I don’t!” said Marjorie, with conviction. “I can’t stand him, and I’d love to get out of going with him. And Irene doesn’t mind.”

“But I bet Kirk will!” muttered the boy. “All right, I’m flattered. I’ll be ready before ten.”

And so Marjorie found the excursion more delightful than she had anticipated, with this pleasant companion. Clayton was a Boy Scout, and he had spent several of his summers camping. It was surprising the amount of knowledge he had of nature and her ways. They talked of many things, delighted to discover that they had so much in common.

For the first mile of their trip, Marjorie kept turning around every few minutes and looking back, fearful lest the party would catch her and punish her—perhaps by a dipping—for running away from Kirk. But none of the canoes appeared, and she hoped that they had forgotten what partner she had drawn. And Kirk would never tell; he was probably too indifferent to notice the change of canoe-mates.

But Marjorie was mistaken in this supposition. No sooner had the Girl Scouts put in an appearance than Kirk began to ask everyone for Marjorie. Irene watched his disturbance with annoyance, but she said nothing. Instead, she began to look for Clayton.

“You’re sure Marjorie isn’t in her cabin?” Kirk asked Lily.

“No, she left quite early—it must have been nearly half an hour ago.”

“Oh, I saw her!” cried Bob, suddenly. “I saw a canoe go off about twenty minutes ago, with a boy and a girl in it. Now that I think of it, it must have been Marjorie and Clayton!”

“The scamp!” exclaimed Kirk, with more animation than usual. “She evidently ran away from me.”

“You can’t blame her!” muttered Alice, to herself.

“No, I think there was something special Clayton wanted to show her about handling a canoe,” said Lily, loyally coming to her chum’s rescue. “I heard her talking to him last night.” Irene shot Lily a grateful look, for which the latter could see no reason. All the while she was edging up towards Kirk, in order to give him the opportunity to ask her to go with him. The others were getting into their boats; it would be too embarrassing if he did not ask her soon.

“Well, Irene,” he said, to her immense relief, “we’re both deserted, so we may as well patch it up together. What do you say?”

“Oh, thank you for coming to my rescue, Kirk,” she replied, gratefully. “It’s so much worse for a girl to be left in the lurch than for a man. But I’m afraid old ladies like me can’t expect to hold young men like Clayton Jones.”

“But you’re no older than Marjorie!” protested Kirk.

“No, that’s true,” she admitted.

She stepped happily into the canoe, well pleased at the success of the plan, and at the good-humored attitude of her companion. She resolved to keep up his good spirits as long as possible. He seemed in a talkative mood.

“Tell me what you think of this Marjorie Wilkinson,” he began.

Irene did not care to talk about other girls, but she felt she would have to satisfy him as best she could.

“Why, she seems lovely to me,” she replied. “She is a very athletic girl—lieutenant of the scout troop, and all that—and she doesn’t appear to care much about men. Last night she told me she would rather go with any of the Academy boys than anybody else, because they knew so much about nature!” Irene studied Kirk’s face, as she added her final remark: “I really think it was she who arranged to run away with Clayton. She seems to like him a lot!”

“She’s not showing bad taste at that,” remarked her companion. “I wouldn’t be adverse to a little trip with the kid myself.”

“Clayton, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Not Marjorie? Are you—are you so awfully sorry you missed her company?”

“Certainly not!” returned the young man, coolly. “She’s nothing to me!”

Irene felt relieved, but she was sorry not to evoke some warmer expression of sentiment from her companion. She was sitting in the bow of the boat, so she could not see him without turning around, and she could not do that too often. So she hardly knew how to interpret his last remark, or to know how much he was in earnest.

She tried other subjects, but Kirk made his answers so monosyllabic that she finally abandoned all attempt at conversation, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the scenery, and of paddling. Kirk was an experienced canoeist, and in spite of the fact that they were going against the current, he made good headway. When they reached the picnic spot, they found Marjorie and Clayton already there. They were seated on the edge of the bank with their lines in the water. Two good sized fish lay on the ground beside them.

“Marj can fish!” cried Clayton, triumphantly. He seemed proud to exhibit her as his especial property.

“My brother taught me something about it, but I want to learn lots more,” she explained.

Kirk threw himself upon the ground beside her, and watched her with amusement. He, who was so indifferent to girls himself, was not used to finding them indifferent to him.

“If you hadn’t run away from me,” he remarked, “I’d have been glad to ask you to go fishing with me.”

Marjorie shot him a withering glance. He certainly seemed pleased with himself!

“Clayton is perfectly willing to help me, and he says Pop Welsh, who knows more about fishing than anybody else on the ranch, will be glad to give me some instructions. So you see, Mr. Smith, I shall hardly need your services!”

The rest of the party arrived, and soon everyone was busy with their preparations for lunch. The boys made a fire, while Mrs. Hilton, assisted by the girls, unpacked the food and spread it out on the ground.

It was not until they were seated, and the meal in progress, that the young people began to question Marjorie about her disappearance. Clayton laughed, and Marjorie dismissed the matter with a shrug of the shoulders. She had decided that in the presence of both Kirk and Irene she would be absolutely non-committal.

“And are you going back the same way?” asked Lily.

“If Mr. Hilton will give us the permission,” replied Marjorie.

“But suppose I don’t agree!” put in Kirk.

Irene cast Marjorie an imploring look; surely she would not say anything compromising.

“I’ll do whatever the most people want,” she answered, sweetly.

“Then I demand my rights!” said Kirk, and Marjorie nodded in silence.

That afternoon the whole party went fishing, and returned not only with enough for supper, but with a supply to take home for breakfast as well. Mrs. Hilton was more than pleased with the results.

As they gathered around the fire again for supper, Alice suddenly noticed that Marjorie was missing. “And so is Clayton!” cried Kirk, jumping to his feet. “If they’ve made another escape—”

“Which they have!” announced Bob, from the bank of the stream. “One canoe is gone!”

“Then I’m going to follow them!” said Kirk, starting for the boats.

“Without your supper?” demanded Mrs. Hilton.

“Yes—may I have a piece of bread? But come, somebody must go with me, on account of the number of places in the boats. Daisy, would you—”

“Yes, indeed!” cried the girl, jumping up immediately. “Something might have happened to them, and we really ought to trace them before it gets dark.”

Mrs. Hilton thrust some bread and dried fruit into their hands, and they were gone. The others turned their attention to supper.

“I do believe Kirk is crazy about Marjorie!” remarked Bob Hilton, when the canoe was out of sight.

“No, I think it’s Daisy,” said his mother. “Marjorie has just got the best of him, and he wants to conquer her.”

“Well, anyway,” concluded Tom Melville, “he takes more interest in those two girls than in anything or anybody since he’s been out here. And, by George, I’m glad to see it!”

Irene said nothing; she was too disappointed to think of anyone but herself. But she no longer blamed Marjorie, or felt any resentment against her; she only wished that she might adopt the same attitude toward men that the other girl maintained. It seemed to be so entirely successful.

When the party finally reached the ranch in the late dusk of the evening, they found Kirk and Clayton on the porch. But the girls, they said, had gone to bed.

“And did you catch Marjorie?” asked Alice, laughingly.

“No,” replied Kirk. “It takes someone as clever as Clayton to catch her. Not that I really wanted to,” he yawned, “but I did enjoy the chase.”

These last words sent Irene to bed a happier girl.