No thoughts of idiocy crossed the minds of any of the camping party during their first breakfast under the great oak-tree. The air, the sunlight, the rippling waters of the lake, the white clouds in the blue sky, the great trunks of the trees, the rustling of the leaves, the songs of the birds, the hum of insects, the brightness of everything, their wonderful appetites—the sense of all these things more than filled their minds.

For the greater part of that day Mr. Archibald fished, sometimes in a stream which ran into the head of the lake about a quarter of a mile above the camp, and sometimes on the shores of the lake itself. Margery sketched; her night in the studio had filled her with dreams of art, and she had discovered in a corner a portable easel made of hickory sticks with the bark on, and she had tucked some drawing materials into one of her bags.

Mrs. Archibald was a little tired with her journey of the day before, and contented herself with sitting in the shade in pleasant places, occupied with some needle-work she had brought with her, and trying to discipline her mind to habits of happiness in camp. This was not very difficult during the first part of this beautiful day, but towards the end of the afternoon she began to think less of the joys of a free life in the heart of nature and more of the pleasure of putting on her bonnet and going out to make some calls upon her friends. In this state of mind it pleased her to see Phil Matlack coming towards her.

“Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am?” said he.

“No, thank you,” she answered. “It would seem rather odd to have afternoon tea in the woods, and I really don’t care for it.”

“We can have ’most anything in the woods, ma’am,” said Matlack, “that we can have anywhere else, providin’ you don’t mind what sort of fashion you have it in. I thought it might be sort of comfortin’ to you to have a cup of tea. I’ve noticed that in most campin’ parties of the family order there’s generally one or two of them that’s lonesome the first day; and the fact is I don’t count on anything particular bein’ done on the first day in camp, except when the party is regular hunters or fishermen. It’s just as well for some of them to sit round on the first day and let things soak into them, provided it isn’t rain, and the next day they will have a more natural feelin’ about what they really want to do. Now I expect you will be off on some sort of a tramp to-morrow, ma’am, or else be out in the boat; and as for that young lady, she’s not goin’ to sketch no more after to-day. She’s got young Martin out in the boat, restin’ on his oars, while she’s puttin’ him into her picture. She’s rubbed him out so often that I expect he’ll fall asleep and tumble overboard, or else drop one of his oars.”

“Mr. Matlack,” said Mrs. Archibald, “will you please sit down a moment? I want to ask you something.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” said he, and forthwith seated himself on a log near by, picking up a stick as he did so, and beginning to shave the bark from it with his pocket-knife.

“Do you know,” said she, “if there are panthers in these woods?”

Matlack looked up at her quickly. “I expect you heard them walkin’ about your cabin last night,” said he; “and not only panthers, but most likely a bear or two, and snakes rustlin’ in the leaves; and, for all I know, coons or ’possums climbin’ in and out of the window.”

“Oh, nothing so bad as that,” she replied. “I only thought—”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I didn’t mean that you heard all those things, but most likely a part of them. Hardly any family parties goes into camp that some of them don’t hear wild beasts the first night. But they never come no more. Them kind of wild beasts I call first-nighters, and they’re about the worst kind we’ve got, because they really do hurt people by scratchin’ and clawin’ at their nerves, whereas the real wild beasts in these parts—and they’re mighty scarce, and never come near camp—don’t hurt nobody.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said she. “But what on earth can be keeping Mr. Archibald? When he started out after dinner he said he would be back very soon.”

“Oh, he’s got the fever, ma’am,” said Matlack.

“Fever!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, dropping her work in her lap.

“Oh, don’t be frightened,” said he; “it is only the fishin’ fever. It don’t hurt anybody; it only keeps the meals waitin’. You see, we are pretty nigh the first people out this year, and the fish bite lively. Are you fond of fishin’, ma’am?”

“No, indeed,” said she; “I dislike it. I think it is cruel and slimy and generally unpleasant.”

“I expect you’ll spend most of your time in the boat,” suggested Matlack. “Your husband rows, don’t he?”

“He doesn’t row me,” said Mrs. Archibald, with earnestness. “I never go out in a boat except with a regular boatman. I suppose you have a larger boat than the one that young man is in? I can see it from here, and it looks very small.”

“No, ma’am,” said Matlack; “that’s the only one we’ve got. And now I guess I’ll go see about supper. This has been a lazy day for us, but we always do calc’late on a lazy day to begin with.”

“It strikes me,” said Matlack to himself, as he walked away, “that this here camp will come to an end pretty soon. The man and the young woman could stand it for a couple of weeks, but there’s nothing here for the old lady, and it can’t be long before she’ll have us all out of the woods again.”

“You can come in,” called Margery, about ten minutes after this conversation; and young Martin, who had not the least idea of going to sleep in the boat, dipped his oars in the water and rowed ashore, pulled the boat up on the beach, and then advanced to the spot where Margery was preparing to put away her drawing materials.

“Would you mind letting me see your sketch?” said he.

“Oh no,” said she; “but you’ll see it isn’t very much like the scene itself. When I make a drawing from nature I never copy everything I see just as if I were making a photograph. I suppose you think I ought to draw the boat just as it is, but I always put something of my own in my pictures. And that, you see, is a different kind of a boat from the one you were in. It is something like Venetian boats.”

“It isn’t like anything in this part of the world, that is true,” said the young man, as he held the drawing in his hand; “and if it had been more like a gondola it would not have suited the scene. I think you have caught the spirit of the landscape very well; but if you don’t object to a little criticism, I should say that the shore over there is too near the foreground. It seems to me that the picture wants atmosphere; that would help the distance very much.”

“Do you draw?” asked Margery, in surprise.

“I used to be very fond of sketching,” said he. “I stayed at Sadler’s a good part of the last winter, and when I wasn’t out hunting I made a good many drawings of winter scenes. I would be glad to show them to you when we go back.”

“Well,” said she, “if I had known you were an artist I would not have asked you to go out there and sit as a model.”

“Oh, I am not an artist,” replied Martin; “I only draw, that’s all. But if you make any more water sketches and would like me to put some ducks or any other kind of wild-fowl in the foreground I will be glad to do it for you. I have made a specialty of natural-history drawings. Don’t bother yourself about that easel; I’ll carry up your things for you.”

About half-way to the cabin Margery suddenly stopped and turned round towards the young man, who was following her. “How did you come to be a guide?” she asked.

He smiled. “That’s because I was born a naturalist and a sportsman. I went into business when I finished my education, but I couldn’t stand that, and as I couldn’t afford to become a gentleman sportsman, I came here as a guide. I’m getting a lot of experience in this sort of life, and when I’ve saved money enough I’m going on an exploring expedition, most likely to Central America. That’s the kind of life that will suit me.”

“And write a book about it?” asked Margery.

“Most likely,” said he.

That night, after supper, Margery remarked: “Our two guides are American citizens, and I don’t see why they can’t eat at the table with us instead of waiting until we have finished. We are all free and equal in the woods.”

“Margery Dearborn!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald. “What are you talking about?”

She was going to say that if there were one straw more needed to break her back, that straw would be the sight of the two guides sitting at the table with them, but she restrained herself. She did not want Mr. Archibald to know anything about the condition of her back.

“So long as they don’t want to do it, and don’t do it,” said she, “pray don’t let us say anything about it. Let’s try to make things as pleasant as we can.”

Mr. Archibald was lighting his pipe, and when he was sure the tobacco was sufficiently ignited he took the pipe from his mouth and turned towards his wife.

“Harriet,” said he, “you have been too much alone to-day. I don’t know what I shall do to-morrow; but whatever it is, I am going to take you with me.”

“Of course that depends on what it is you do,” she answered. “But I will try to do everything I can.”

Mr. Archibald heaved a little sigh, which was not noticed by any one, because it sounded like a puff.

“I am afraid,” he thought, “that this camping business is not going to last very much longer, and we shall be obliged to make the rest of our wedding-journey in a different style.”

The next morning, when Mr. Archibald went out of his cabin door, he looked over the lake and saw a bird suddenly swoop down upon the water, breaking the smooth surface into sparkles of silver, and then rise again, a little silvery fish glittering in its claws.

“Beautifully done!” said he. “A splendid stroke!” And then turning, he looked up the lake, and not far from the water’s edge he saw Margery walking with Mr. Clyde, while Mr. Raybold followed a little in the rear.

“Harriet,” he cried, quickly stepping into the cabin again, “look out here! What is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Archibald was dressed, and came out. When she saw the trio approaching them, she was not so much surprised as was her husband.

“I don’t know the meaning of anything that happens in these woods,” she said; “but if a lot of people have come from the hotel with those young men I cannot say I am sorry.”

“Come,” said her husband, “we must look into this.”

In two minutes the Archibalds had met the new-comers, who advanced with outstretched hands, as if they had been old friends. Mr. Archibald, not without some mental disquietude at this intrusion upon the woodland privacy of his party, was about to begin a series of questions, when he was forestalled by Margery.

“Oh, Uncle Archibald and Aunt Harriet!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold have come out here to camp. Their camp is right next to ours, and it is called Camp Roy. You see, some years ago there was a large camping party came here, and they called the place Camp Rob Roy, but it was afterwards divided, and one part called Camp Rob and the other Camp Roy.”

“Indeed!” interrupted Mr. Archibald. “Mr. Sadler did not tell us that ours was only half a camp with only half a name.”

“I don’t suppose he thought of it,” said Margery. “And the line between the two camps is just three hundred feet above our cabin. I don’t suppose anybody ever measures it off, but there it is; and Mr. Clyde and Mr. Raybold have taken Camp Roy, which hasn’t any house on it. They started before daybreak this morning, and brought a tent along with them, which they have pitched just back of that little peninsula; and they haven’t any guide, because they want to attend to their own cooking and everything, and the man who brought the tent and other things has gone back. They are going to live there just like real backwoodsmen, and they have a boat of their own, which is to be brought up from the bottom of the lake somewhere—I mean from the lower end of the lake. And, Aunt Harriet, may I speak to you a moment?”

With this the young woman drew Mrs. Archibald aside, and in a low voice asked if she thought it would be out of the way to invite the two young men to take breakfast with them, as it was not likely they had all their cooking things in order so early.

Five people sat down to breakfast under the great oak-tree, and it was a lively meal. Mr. Archibald’s mental disquiet, in which were now apparent some elements of resentment, had not subsided, but the state of his mind did not show itself in his demeanor, and he could not help feeling pleased to see that his wife was in better spirits. He had always known that she liked company.

After breakfast he took Matlack aside. “I don’t understand this business,” said he. “When I hired this camp I supposed we were to have it to ourselves; but if there are other camps jammed close against it we may be in the midst of a great public picnic before a week is out.”

“Oh, that camp over there isn’t much of a camp,” replied the guide. “The fact is, it is only the tail end of a camp, and I don’t suppose Peter Sadler thought anybody would be likely to take it just now, and so didn’t think it worth while to speak of it. Of course it’s jammed up against this one, as you say; but then the people in one camp haven’t the right to cross the line into another camp if the people in the other camp don’t want them to.”

“Line!” said Mr. Archibald. “It is absurd to think of lines in a place like this. And I have no intention of making myself disagreeable by ordering people off my premises. But I would like to know if there is another camp three hundred feet on this side of our cabin, or three hundred feet back of it.”

“No, sir,” said Matlack, speaking promptly; “there isn’t another camp between this and the lower end of the lake. There’s a big one there, and it’s taken; but the people aren’t coming until next month.”

“If a larger party had taken Camp Roy,” said Mr. Archibald to his wife a little later, “I should not mind it so much. But two young men! I do not like it.”