About half an hour after the beginning of the conversation between the bishop and Miss Corona, Mrs. Perkenpine came to the latter and informed her that supper was ready, and three times after that first announcement did she repeat the information. At last the bishop rose and said he would not keep Miss Raybold from her meal.

“Will you not join us?” she asked. “I shall be glad to have you do so.”

The bishop hesitated for a moment, and then he accompanied Corona.

As Mrs. Perkenpine turned from the camp cooking-stove, a long-handled pan, well filled with slices of hot meat, in her hand, she stood for a moment amazed. Slowly approaching the little table outside of the tent were the bishop and Miss Raybold, and glancing beyond them towards the lake, she saw Clyde and Raybold, to whom she had yelled that supper was ready, the one with his arms folded, gazing out over the water, and the other strolling backward and forward, as if he had thought of going to his supper, but had not quite made up his mind to it.

Mrs. Perkenpine’s face grew red. “They are waitin’ for a chance to speak to that Archibald gal,” she thought. “Well, let them wait. And she’s bringing him! She needn’t s’pose I don’t know him. I’ve seen him splittin’ wood at Sadler’s, and I don’t cook for sech.” So saying, she strode to some bushes a little back of the stove, and dashed the panful of meat behind them. Then she returned, and seizing the steaming coffee-pot, she poured its contents on the ground. Then she took up a smaller pan, containing some fried potatoes, hot and savory, and these she threw after the meat.

The bishop and Corona now reached the table and seated themselves. Mrs. Perkenpine, her face as hard and immovable as the trunk of an oak, approached, and placed before them some slices of cold bread, some butter, and two glasses of water.

Still earnestly talking, her eyes sometimes dimmed with tears of excitement as she descanted upon her favorite theories, Corona began to eat what was before her. She buttered a slice of bread, and if the bishop chanced to say anything she ate some of it. She drank some water, and she talked and talked and talked. She did not know what she was eating. It might have been a Lord Mayor’s dinner or a beggar’s crust; her mind took no cognizance of such an unimportant matter. As for her companion, he knew very well what he was eating, and as he gazed about him, and saw that there were no signs of anything more, his heart sank lower and lower; but he ate slice after slice of bread, for he was hungry, and he hoped that when the two young men came to the table they would call for more substantial food.

But long before they arrived Corona finished her meal and rose.

“Now that we have had our supper,” she said, “let us go where we shall not be annoyed by the smell of food, and continue our conversation.”

“Is it possible,” thought the bishop, “that she can be annoyed by the smell of hot meat, potatoes, and coffee? I suppose the delicious odor comes from the other supper-table. Heavens! Why wasn’t I asked there?”

There was a dreadful storm when Raybold and Clyde came to the table; but Mrs. Perkenpine remained hard and immovable through it all.

“Your sister and that tramp has been here,” said she, “and this is all there is left. If you keep your hogs in your house, you can’t expect to count on your victuals.”

Some more coffee was made, and that, with bread, composed the young men’s supper.

When Arthur Raybold had finished his meal, he walked to the spot where Corona and the bishop were conversing, and stood there silently. He was afraid to interrupt his sister by speaking to her, but he thought that his presence might have an effect upon her companion. It did have an effect, for the bishop seized the opportunity created by the arrival of a third party, excused himself, and departed at the first break in Corona’s flow of words.

“I wish, Arthur,” she said, “that when you see I am engaged in a conversation, you would wait at least a reasonable time before interrupting it.”

“A reasonable time!” said Raybold, with a laugh. “I like that! But I came here to interrupt your conversation. Do you know who that fellow is you were talking to? He’s a common, good-for-nothing tramp. He goes round splitting wood for his meals. Clyde and I kept him here to cook our meals because we had no servant, and he’s been in bed for days because he had no clothes to wear. Now you are treating him as if he were a gentleman, and you actually brought him to our table, where, like the half-starved cur that he is, he has eaten up everything fit to eat that we were to have for our supper.”

“He did not eat all of it,” said Corona, “for I ate some myself; and if he is the good-for-nothing tramp and the other things you call him, I wish I could meet with more such tramps. I tell you, Arthur, that if you were to spend the next five years in reading and studying, you could not get into your mind one-tenth of the serious information, the power to reason intelligently upon your perceptions, the ability to collate, compare, and refer to their individual causes the impressions—”

“Oh, bosh!” said her brother. “What I want to know is, are you going to make friends with that man and invite him to our table?”

“I shall invite him if I see fit,” said she. “He is an extremely intelligent person.”

“Well,” answered he, “if you do I shall have a separate table,” and he walked away.

As soon as he had left Corona, the bishop repaired to the Archibalds’ cooking-tent, where he saw Matlack at work.

“I have come,” he said, with a pleasant smile, “to ask a very great favor. Would it be convenient for you to give me something to eat? Anything in the way of meat, hot or cold, and some tea or coffee, as I see there is a pot still steaming on your stove. I have had an unlucky experience. You know I have been preparing my own meals at the other camp, but to-day, when Mrs. Perkenpine brought me my clothes, she carried away with her all the provisions that had been left there. I supped, it is true, with Miss Raybold, but her appetite is so delicate and her fare so extremely simple that I confidentially acknowledge that I am half starved.”

During these remarks Matlack had stood quietly gazing at the bishop. “Do you see that pile of logs and branches there?” said he; “that’s the firewood that’s got to be cut for to-morrow, which is Sunday, when we don’t want to be cuttin’ wood; and if you’ll go to work and cut it into pieces to fit this stove, I’ll give you your supper. You can go to the other camp and sleep where you have been sleepin’, if you want to, and in the mornin’ I’ll give you your breakfast. I ’ain’t got no right to give you Mr. Archibald’s victuals, but what you eat I’ll pay for out of my own pocket, considerin’ that you’ll do my work. Then to-morrow I’ll give you just one hour after you’ve finished your breakfast to get out of this camp altogether, entirely out of my sight. I tried to have you sent away before, but other people took you up, and so I said no more; but now things are different. When a man pulls up what I’ve drove down, and sets loose what I’ve locked up, and the same as snaps his fingers in my face when I’m attendin’ to my business, then I don’t let that man stay in my camp.”

“Excuse me,” said the bishop, “but in case I should not go away within the time specified, what would be your course?”

In a few brief remarks, inelegant but expressive, the guide outlined his intentions of taking measures which would utterly eliminate the physical energy of the other.

“I haven’t taken no advantage of you,” he said, “I haven’t come down on you when you hadn’t no clothes to go away in; and now that you’ve got good clothes, I don’t want to spile them if I can help it; but they’re not goin’ to save you—mind my words. What I’ve said I’ll stick to.”

“Mr. Matlack,” said the bishop, “I consider that you are entirely correct in all your positions. As to that unfortunate affair of the boat, I had intended coming to you and apologizing most sincerely for my share in it. It was an act of great foolishness, but that does not in the least excuse me. I apologize now, and beg that you will believe that I truly regret having interfered with your arrangements.”

“That won’t do!” exclaimed the guide. “When a man as much as snaps his fingers in my face, it’s no use for him to come and apologize. That’s not what I want.”

“Nevertheless,” said the bishop, “you will pardon me if I insist upon expressing my regrets. I do that for my own sake as well as yours; but we will drop that subject. When you ask me to cut wood to pay for my meals, you are entirely right, and I honor your sound opinion upon this subject. I will cut the wood and earn my meals, but there is one amendment to your plan which I would like to propose. To-morrow is Sunday; for that reason we should endeavor to make the day as quiet and peaceable as possible, and we should avoid everything which may be difficult of explanation or calculated to bring about an unpleasant difference of opinion among other members of the party. Therefore, will you postpone the time at which you will definitely urge my departure until Monday morning?”

“Well,” said Matlack, “now I come to think of it, it might be well not to kick up a row on Sunday, and I will put it off until Monday morning; but mind, there’s no nonsense about me. What I say I mean, and on Monday morning you march of your own accord, or I’ll attend to the matter myself.”

“Very good,” said the bishop; “thank you very much. To-morrow I will consider your invitation to leave this place, and if you will come to Camp Roy about half-past six on Monday morning I will then give you my decision. Will that hour suit you?”

“All right,” said Matlack, “you might as well make it a business matter. It’s going to be business on my side, I’d have you know.”

“Good—very good,” said the bishop, “and now let me get at that wood.”

So saying, he put down his cane, took off his hat, his coat, his waistcoat, his collar, and his cravat and his cuffs; he rolled up his sleeves, he turned up the bottoms of his trousers, and then taking an axe, he set to work.

In a few minutes Martin arrived on the scene. “What’s up now?” said he.

“He’s cuttin’ wood for his meals,” replied Matlack.

“I thought you were going to bounce him as soon as he got up?”

“That’s put off until Monday morning,” said Matlack. “Then he marches. I’ve settled that.”

“Did he agree?” asked Martin.

“’Tain’t necessary for him to agree; he’ll find that out Monday morning.”

Martin stood and looked at the bishop as he worked.

“I wish you would get him to cut wood every day,” said he. “By George, how he makes that axe fly!”

When the bishop finished his work he drove his axe-head deep into a stump, washed his hands and his face, resumed the clothing he had laid aside, and then sat down to supper. There was nothing stingy about Matlack, and the wood-chopper made a meal which amply compensated him for the deficiencies of the Perkenpine repast.

When he had finished he hurried to the spot where the party was in the habit of assembling around the camp-fire. He found there some feebly burning logs, and Mr. Clyde, who sat alone, smoking his pipe.

“What is the matter?” asked the bishop. “Where are all our friends?”

“I suppose they are all in bed,” said Clyde, “with the bedclothes pulled over their heads—that is, except one, and I suspect she is talking in her sleep. They were all here as usual, and Mr. Archibald thought he would break the spell by telling a fishing story. He told me he was going to try to speak against time; but it wasn’t of any use. She just slid into the middle of his remarks as a duck slides into the water, and then she began an oration. I really believe she did not know that any one else was talking.”

“That may have been the case,” said the bishop; “she has a wonderful power of self-concentration.”

“Very true,” said Clyde, “and this time she concentrated herself so much upon herself that the rest of us got away, one by one, and when all the others had gone she went. Then, when I found she really had gone, I came back. By-the-way, bishop,” he continued, “there is something I would like to do, and I want you to help me.”

“Name it,” said the other.

“I am getting tired of the way the Raybolds are trespassing on the good-nature of the Archibalds, and, whatever they do, I don’t intend to let them make me trespass any longer. I haven’t anything to do with Miss Raybold, but the other tent belongs as much to me as it does to her brother, and I am going to take it back to our own camp. And what is more, I am going to have my meals there. I don’t want that wooden-headed Mrs. Perkenpine to cook for me.”

“How would you like me to do it?” asked the bishop, quickly.

“That would be fine,” said Clyde. “I will help, and we will set up house-keeping there again, and if Raybold doesn’t choose to come and live in his own camp he can go wherever he pleases. I am not going to have him manage things for me. Don’t you think that you and I can carry that tent over?”

“With ease!” exclaimed the bishop. “When do you want to move—Monday morning?”

“Yes,” said Clyde, “after breakfast.”