Very early the next morning Margery pushed wide open the window of her studio chamber. The sash was a large one, and opened outward on hinges. She looked out upon the dewy foliage, she inhaled the fragrance of the moist morning air, she listened to the song of some early birds, and then, being dressed for the day, she got on a chair, stepped on the window-sill, and jumped out. She walked quietly round the cabin and went out towards the lake. She had never seen the woods so early in the day. All the space between the earth and the sky seemed filled with an intoxicating coolness. She took off her hat and carried it in her hand; the sun was not yet high enough to make it necessary to put anything between him and her.

“This is what I am,” said Margery to herself as she stepped blithely on. “I never knew before what I am. I am really a dryad under difficulties.”

Presently, to her amazement and his amazement, she saw Martin. She went towards him.

“Oh, Martin,” she said, “are you up so early?”

He smiled. “This is not early for me,” he answered.

“And Mr. Matlack, is he up?”

“Oh yes, he is up, and gone off to attend to some business.”

“Well, really!” exclaimed Margery. “I thought I was the first one out in the world to-day. And now, Martin, don’t you want to do something for me? I did not think it would happen, but I am really dreadfully hungry, and couldn’t you give me my breakfast now, by myself, before anybody else? I am not particular what I have—anything that is easy to get ready will do—and I would like it down at the very edge of the lake.”

“You shall have it!” exclaimed Martin, eagerly. “I will get it ready for you very soon, and will bring it to you. I know you like bread and butter and jam, and there is some cold meat, and I will boil you an egg and make some coffee.”

“That will be lovely,” said Margery, “and I will go down by the lake and wait. I do believe,” she said to herself as she hurried away, “that this hermit business is the only sensible thing that ever came into the head of that classic statue with the glass fronts.”

Very soon Martin appeared with a rug, which he said she would want if she were going to sit on the ground; and then he ran away, but soon came back with the breakfast. Margery was surprised to see how tastefully it was served.

“You could not have done it better,” she said, “if you had been a”—she was about to say waiter, but as she gazed at the bright, handsome face of the young man she felt that it would hurt his feelings to use such a word, so she suddenly changed it to woman.

“If it is done well,” he said, “it is not because I am like a woman, but because you are one.”

“What does that mean?” thought Margery; but she did not stop to consider. “Thank you very much,” she said. “Here is where I am going to eat, and nobody will disturb me.”

“Do you wish anything else?” he asked.

“No,” said she. “I have everything I want; you know I take only one cup of coffee.”

He did know it; he knew everything she took, and as he felt that there was no excuse for him to stay there any longer, he slowly walked away.

The place Margery had chosen was a nice little nook for a nice little hermit. It was a bit of low beach, very narrow, and flanked on the shore side by a row of bushes, which soon turned and grew down to the water’s edge, thus completely cutting off one end of the beach. At the other end the distance between the shrubbery and the water was but a few feet, so that Margery could eat her breakfast without being disturbed by the rest of the world.

Reclining on the rug with the little tray on the ground before her, and some green leaves and a few pale wild flowers peeping over the edge of it to see what she had for breakfast, Margery gave herself up to the enjoyment of life.

“Each, one,” she said aloud; “I am one, and beautiful nature is another. Just two of us, and each, one. Go away, sir,” she said to a big buzzing creature with transparent wings, “you are another, but you don’t count.”

Arthur Raybold was perhaps the member of the party who was the best satisfied to be himself. He had vowed, as he left the camp-fire the night before, that his sister had at last evolved an idea which had some value. Be himself? He should think so! He firmly believed that he was the only person in the camp capable of truly acting his own part in life.

Clyde had told him that on this morning he was going to move the tent over to their own camp, and though he had objected very forcibly, he found that Clyde was not to be moved, and that the tent would be. In an angry mood he had been the first one of the Associated Hermits to assert his individuality. He made up his mind that he would not leave the immediate atmosphere of Margery. He would revolve about her in his waking hours and in his dreams, and in the latter case he would revolve in a hammock hung between two trees not far from his sister’s tent; and as he was not one who delayed the execution of his plans, he had put up the hammock that night, although his tent was still in Camp Rob. He had not slept very well, because he was not used to repose in a hammock; and he had risen early, for, though wrapped in a blanket, he had found himself a little chilly.

Starting out for a brisk walk to warm himself, he had not gone far before he thought he heard something which sounded like the clicking of knife and fork and dish. He stopped, listened, and then approached the source of the sounds, and soon stood at the open end of Margery’s little beach. For a few moments she did not know he was there, so engrossed was her mind with the far-away shadows on the lake, and with the piece of bread and jam she held in her hand.

“Oh, happy Fates!” he exclaimed. “How have ye befriended me! Could I have believed such rare fortune was in store for me?”

At the sound of his voice Margery turned her head and started, and in the same instant she was on her feet.

“Margery,” he said, without approaching her, but extending his arms so that one hand touched the bushes and the other reached over the water, “I have you a gentle prisoner. I consider this the most fortunate hour of my whole existence. All I ask of you is to listen to me for ten minutes, and then I will cease to stand guard at the entrance to your little haven, and although you will be free to go where you please, I know you will not go away from me.”

Margery’s face was on fire. She was so angry she could scarcely speak, but she managed to bring some words to her lips to express her condition of mind.

“Mr. Raybold,” she cried, “if I ever hear any more of that horrid trash from you I will speak to Mr. Archibald, and have him drive you out of this camp. I haven’t spoken to him before because I thought it would make trouble and interfere with people who have not done anything but what is perfectly right, but this is the last time I am going to let you off, and I would like you to remember that. Now go away this instant, or else step aside and let me pass.”

Raybold did not change his position, but with a smile of indulgent condescension he remarked:

“Now, then, you are angry; but I don’t mind that, and I am quite sure you do not mean it. You see, you have never heard all that I have to say to you. When I have fully spoken to you, then I have no fear—”

He had not finished his sentence, when Margery dashed into the water, utterly regardless of her clothes, and before the astonished intruder could advance towards her she had rushed past him, and had run up on dry land a yard or two behind him. The water on the shelving beach was not more than a foot deep, but her mad bounds made a splashing and a spattering of spray as if a live shark bad been dropped into the shallow water. In a moment she had left the beach and was face to face with Martin, pale with fright.

“I thought you had tumbled in!” he cried. “What on earth is the matter?”

She had no breath to answer, but she turned her head towards the lake, and as Martin looked that way he saw Raybold advancing from behind the bushes. It required no appreciable time for the young guide to understand the situation. His whole form quivered, his hands involuntarily clinched, his brows knitted, and he made one quick step forward; but only one, for Margery seized him by the wrist. Without knowing what he was doing, he struggled to free himself from her, but she was strong and held him fast.

“I must go to my tent,” she gasped. “I am all wet. Now promise me that you will not say a thing or do a thing until I see you again. Promise!”

For a moment he seemed undecided, and then he ceased his efforts to get away, and said, “I promise.”

Margery dropped his arm and hurried towards the cabin, hoping earnestly that the Archibalds were not yet up.

“This is a gay and lively beginning for a hermit,” she thought, as she made her way around the house, “and I don’t see how on earth I am ever going to get through that window again. There is nothing to stand on. I did not expect to go back until they were all up.”

But when she reached the window there was a stout wooden stool placed below it.

“Martin did that,” she thought, “while I was at my breakfast. He knew I must have come through the window, and might want to go back that way. Oh dear!” she sighed. “But I am sure I can’t help it.” And so, mounting from the stool to the window-sill, she entered her room.

Having given his promise, Martin turned his back upon the sombre young man, who, with folded arms and clouded brow, was stalking towards the tents at the other end of the camp.

“If I look at him,” said Martin, “it may be that I could not keep my promise.”

It was about half an hour afterwards, when Martin, still excited and still pale, was getting ready for the general breakfast, forgetting entirely that he was a hermit, and that some of the other hermits might have peculiar ideas about their morning meal, that Phil Matlack arrived on the scene. Martin was very much engrossed in his own thoughts, but he could not repress an inquiring interest in his companion.

“Well,” said he, “did you bounce him?”

Matlack made no answer, but began to cut out the top of a tin can.

“I say,” repeated Martin, “did you bounce him, or did he go without it?”

Without turning towards the younger man, Matlack remarked: “I was mistaken. That ain’t fat; it’s muscle.”

“You don’t mean to say,” exclaimed Martin, in astonishment, “that he bounced you out of that camp!”

“I don’t mean to say nothin’,” was the reply, “except what I do say; and what I say is that that ain’t fat; it’s muscle. When I make a mistake I don’t mind standin’ up and sayin’ so.”

Martin could not understand the situation. He knew Matlack to be a man of great courage and strength, and one who, if he should engage in a personal conflict, would not give up until he had done his very best. But the guide’s appearance gave no signs of any struggle. His clothes were in their usual order, and his countenance was quiet and composed.

“Look here,” cried Martin, “how did you find out all that about the bishop?”

Matlack turned on him with a grim smile. “Didn’t you tell me that day you was talkin’ to me about the boat that he was a tough sort of a fellow?”

“Yes, I did,” said the other.

“Well,” said Matlack, “how did you find that out?”

Martin laughed. “I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, “if we were about square. Well, if you will tell me how you found it out, I will tell you how I did.”

“Go ahead,” said the other.

“The long and short of my business with him,” said Martin, “was this: I went with him down to the lake, and there I gave him a piece of my mind; and when I had finished, he turned on me and grabbed me with his two hands and chucked me out into the water, just as if I had been a bag of bad meal that he wanted to get rid of. When I got out I was going to fight him, but he advised me not to, and when I took a look at him and remembered the feel of the swing he gave me, I took his advice. Now what did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do nothin’,” said Matlack. “When I got to the little tent he sleeps in, there he was sittin’ in front of it, as smilin’ as a basket of chips, and he bade me good-mornin’ as if I had been a tenant comin’ to pay him his rent; and then he said that before we went on with the business between us, there was some things he would like to show me, and he had ’em all ready. So he steps off to a place a little behind the tent, and there was three great bowlders, whopping big stones, which he said he had brought out of the woods. I could hardly believe him, but there they was. ‘You don’t mean,’ says I, ‘that you are goin’ to fight with stones; because, if you are, you ought to give me a chance to get some,’ and I thought to myself that I would pick up rocks that could be heaved. ‘Oh no,’ says he, with one of them smiles of his—‘oh no; I just want to open our conference with a little gymnastic exhibition.’ And so sayin’, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves—he hadn’t no coat on—and he picked up one of them rocks with both hands, and then he gave it a swing with one hand, like you swing a ten-pin ball, and he sent that rock about thirty feet.

“It nearly took my breath away, for if I had to move such a stone I’d want a wheelbarrow. Then he took another of the rocks and hurled it right on top of the first one, and it came down so hard that it split itself in half. And then he took up the third one, which was the biggest, and threw it nearly as far, but it didn’t hit the others. ‘Now, Mr. Matlack,’ says he, ‘this is the first part of my little programme. I have only one or two more things, and I don’t want to keep you long.’ Then he went and got a hickory sapling that he’d cut down. It was just the trunk part of it, and must have been at least three inches thick. He put the middle of it at the back of his neck, and then he took hold of the two ends with his hands and pulled forward, and, by George! he broke that stick right in half!

“Then says he, ‘Would you mind steppin’ down to the lake?’ I didn’t mind, and went with him, and when we got down to the water there was their boat drawed up on the shore and pretty nigh full of water. ‘Mr. Clyde brought this boat back the other day,’ says he, ‘from a place where he left it some distance down the lake, and I wonder he didn’t sink before he got here. We must try and calk up some of the open seams; but first we’ve got to get the water out of her.’ So sayin’, he squatted down on the ground in front of the boat and took hold of it, one hand on one side of the bow and one on the other, and then he gave a big twist, and just turned the boat clean over, water and all, so that it lay with its bottom up, and the water running down into the lake like a little deluge.

“‘That ought to have been done long ago,’ says he, ‘and I’ll come down after a while and calk it before the sun gets on it.’ Then he walked back to camp as spry as a robin, and then says he, ‘Mr. Matlack, my little exhibition is over, and so we’ll go ahead with the business you proposed.’ I looked around, and says I: ‘Do you find that little tent you sleep in comfortable? It seems to me as if your feet must stick out of it.’ ‘They do,’ says he, ‘and I sometimes throw a blanket over them to keep them dry. But we are goin’ to make different arrangements here. Mr. Clyde and I will bring down his tent after breakfast, and if Mr. Raybold doesn’t choose to occupy it, Mr. Clyde says I may share it with him. At any rate, I’ve engaged to attend to the cookin’ and to things in general in this camp durin’ the rest of the time we stay here.’

“‘And so Mr. Clyde is tired of trespassin’, is he?’ says I. ‘Yes, he is,’ says he; ‘he’s a high-minded young fellow, and doesn’t fancy that sort of thing. Mr. Raybold slept last night in a hammock, and if that suits him, he may keep it up.’ ‘If I was you,’ says I, ‘if he does come back to the camp, I’d make him sleep in that little tent. It would fit him better than it does you.’ ‘Oh no,’ says he, ‘I don’t want to make no trouble. I’m willin’ to sleep anywhere. I’m used to roughin’ it, and I could make myself comfortable in any tent I ever saw.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘that was a very pretty exhibition you gave me, and I am much obliged to you, but I must be goin’ over to my camp to help get breakfast.’ ‘If you see Mr. Clyde,’ says he, ‘will you kindly tell him that I will come over and help him with his tent in about an hour?’ To which I said I would, and I left. Now then, hurry up. Them hermits will want their breakfasts.”