IT was the beginning of a close friendship. For more than a week thereafter, the girls were constantly together. They met every morning by appointment at the hotel dock, where Sally always rowed up in “45,” and Genevieve never failed to be the third member of the party. The canoe was quite neglected, except occasionally, in the evening, when Doris and Sally alone paddled about in her for a short time before sunset, or just after. Sally introduced Doris to every spot on the river, every shady bay and inlet or creek that was of the slightest interest. They explored the deserted mill, gathered immense quantities of water-lilies in Cranberry Creek, penetrated for several miles up the windings of the larger creek that was the source of the river, camped and picnicked for the day on the island, and paddled barefooted all one afternoon in the rippling water across its golden bar.

Beside that, they deserted the boat one day and walked to the ocean and back, through the scented aisles of an interminable pine forest. On the ocean beach they explored the wreck of a schooner cast up on the sand in the storm of a past winter, and played hide-and-seek with Genevieve among the billowy dunes. But in all this time neither had once mentioned the subject of the secret on Slipper Point. Doris, though consumed with impatient curiosity, was politely waiting for Sally to make any further disclosures she might choose, and Sally was waiting for—she knew not quite what! But had she realized it, she would have known she was waiting for some final proof that her confidence in her new friend was not misplaced.

Not even yet was she absolutely certain that Doris was as utterly friendly as she seemed. Though she scarcely acknowledged it to herself, she was dreading and fearing that this new, absorbing friendship could not last. When the summer had advanced and there were more companions of Doris’s own kind in Manituck, it would all come to an end. She would be forgotten or neglected, or, perhaps even snubbed for more suitable acquaintances. How could it be otherwise? And how could she disclose her most precious secret to one who might later forsake her and even impart it to some one else? No, she would wait.

In the meantime, while Doris was growing rosy and brown in the healthful outdoor life she was leading with Sally, Sally herself was imbibing new ideas and thoughts and interests in long, ecstatic draughts. Chief among all these were the books—the wonderful books and magazines that Doris had brought with her in a seemingly endless amount. Sometimes Doris could scarcely extract a word from Sally during a whole long morning or afternoon, so deeply absorbed was she in some volume loaned her by her obliging friend. And Doris also knew that Sally sat up many a night, devouring by candle-light the book she wanted to return next day—so that she might promptly replace it by another!

One thing puzzled Doris,—the curious choice of books that seemed to appeal to Sally. She read them all with equal avidity and appeared to enjoy them all at the time, but some she returned to for a second reading, and one in particular she demanded again and again. Doris’s own choice lay in the direction of Miss Alcott’s works and “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and her favorites among Dickens. Sally took these all in with the rest, but she borrowed a second time the books of a more adventurous type, and to Doris’s constant wonder, declared Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” to be her favorite among them all. So frequently did she borrow this, that Doris finally gave her the book for her own, much to Sally’s amazement and delight.

“Why do you like ‘Treasure Island’ best?” Doris asked her point-blank, one day. Sally’s manner immediately grew a trifle reserved.

“Because—because,” she stammered, “it is like—like something—oh! I can’t just tell you right now, Doris. Perhaps I will some day.” And Doris said no more, but put the curious remark away in her mind to wonder over.

“It’s something connected with her secret—that I’m sure!” thought Doris. “I do wish she felt like telling me, but until she does, I’ll try not even to think about it.”

But, all unknown to Doris, the time of her final testing, in Sally’s eyes, was rapidly approaching. Sally herself, however, had known of it and thought over it for a week or more. About the middle of June, there came every year to the “Bluffs” a certain party of young folks, half a dozen or more in number, with their parents, to stay till the middle of July, when they usually left for the mountains. They were boys and girls of about Doris’s age or a trifle older, rollicking, fun-loving, a little boisterous, perhaps, and on the go from morning till night. They spent their mornings at the ocean bathing-beach, their afternoons steaming up and down the river in the fastest motor-boat available, and their evenings dancing in the hotel parlor when they could find any one to play for them. Sally had known them by sight for several years, though never once, in all that time, had they so much as deigned to notice her existence.

“If Doris deserts me for them,” she told herself, “then I’ll be mighty glad I never told her my secret. Oh, I do wonder what she’ll do when they come!”

And then they came. Sally knew of their arrival that evening, when they rioted down to the Landing to procure the fastest launch her father rented. And she waited, inwardly on tenterhooks of anxiety, for the developments of the coming days. But, to her complete surprise, nothing happened. Doris sought her company as usual, and for a day or two never even mentioned the presence of the newcomers. At last Sally could bear it no longer.

“How do you like the Campbells and Hobarts who are at your hotel now?” she inquired one morning.

“Why, they’re all right,” said Doris indifferently, feathering her oars with the joy of a newly-acquired accomplishment.

“But you don’t seem to go around with them,” ventured Sally uncertainly.

“Oh, they tire me to death, they’re so rackety!” yawned Doris. “I like fun and laughing and joking and shouting as well as the next person—once in a while. But I can’t stand it for steady diet. It’s a morning, noon and night performance with them. They’ve invited me to go with them a number of times, and I will go once in a while, so as not to seem unsociable, but much of it would bore me to death. By the way, Sally, Mother told me to ask you to come to dinner with us tonight, if you care to. She’s very anxious to meet you, for I’ve told her such a lot about you. Do you think your mother will allow you to come?”

Sally turned absolutely scarlet with the shock of surprise and joy this totally unexpected invitation caused her.

“Why—yes—er—that is, I think so. Oh, I’m sure of it! But, Doris, do you really want me? I’m—well, I’m only Sally Carter, you know,” she stammered.

“Why, of course I want you!” exclaimed Doris, opening her eyes wide with surprise. “I shouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t.” And so it was settled. Sally was to come up that afternoon, for once without Genevieve, and have dinner at “The Bluffs” with the Craigs. She spent an agonized two hours making her toilet for the occasion, assisted by her anxious mother, who could scarcely fathom the reason for so unprecedented an invitation. When she was arrayed in the very best attire she owned (and a very creditable appearance she made, since she had adopted some of Doris’s well-timed hints), her mother kissed her, bade her “mind how she used her knife and fork,” and she set out for the hotel, joyful on one score, but thoroughly uncomfortable on many others.

But she forgot much of her agitation in the meeting with Mrs. Craig, a pale, lovely, golden-haired woman of the gentlest and most winning manner in the world. In five minutes she had put the shy, awkward village girl completely at her ease, and the three were soon conversing as unrestrainedly as if the mother of Doris was no more than their own age. But Sally could easily divine, from her weakness and pallor, how ill Mrs. Craig had been, and how far from strong she still was.

Dinner at their own cosy little table was by no means the ordeal Sally had expected, and when it was over Mrs. Craig retired to her room and Sally and Doris went out to sit for a while on the broad veranda. It was here that Doris passed the final test that Sally had set for her. There approached the sound of trooping footsteps and laughing voices, and in another moment, the entire Campbell-Hobart clan clattered by.

“Hello, Doris!” they greeted her. “Coming in to dance tonight?”

“I don’t know,” answered Doris. “Have you met my friend, Sally Carter?” And she made all the introductions with unconcerned, easy grace. The Campbell-Hobart faction stared. They knew Sally Carter perfectly well by sight, and all about who she was. What on earth was she doing here—at “The Bluffs”? A number of them murmured some indistinct rejoinder and one of them, in the background, audibly giggled. Sally heard the giggle and flushed painfully. But Doris was superbly indifferent to it all.

“Do you dance, Sally?” she inquired, and Sally stammered that she did not.

“Then we’ll go down to the river and paddle about awhile,” went on Doris. “It’s much nicer than stampeding about that hot parlor.” The Campbell-Hobart crowd melted away. “Come on, Sally!” said Doris, and, linking arms with her new friend, she strolled down the steps to the river, without alluding, by so much as a single syllable, to the rudeness of that noisy, thoughtless group.

And in the heart of Sally Carter there sprang into being such an absolute idolatry of adoration for this glorious new girl friend that she was ready to lie down and die for her at a moment’s notice. The last barrier, the last doubt, was swept completely away. And, as they drifted about in the fading after-glow, Sally remarked, apropos of nothing:

“If you like, we’ll go up to Slipper Point tomorrow, and—I’ll show you—that secret!”

“Oh, Sally,” breathed Doris in an awestruck whisper, “will you—really?”