After Martin had left her, Margery sat on the root of the tree until Mr. Clyde came up and said he had been wondering what had become of her.

“I have been wondering that, myself,” she said. “At least, I have been wondering what is going to become of me.”

“Don’t you intend to be a hermit?” said he.

She shook her head. “I don’t think it is possible,” she answered. “There is no one who is better satisfied to be alone, and who can make herself happier all by herself, and who, in all sorts of ways, can get along better without other people than I can, and yet other people are continually interfering with me, and I cannot get away from them.”

Clyde smiled. “That is a pretty plain hint,” he said. “I suppose I might as well take it, and go off to some hermitage of my own.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Margery. “Don’t be so awfully quick in coming to conclusions. I do feel worried and troubled and bothered, and I want some one to talk to; not about things which worry me, of course, but about common, ordinary things, that will make me forget.”

A slight shade came over the face of Mr. Clyde, and he seated himself on the ground near Margery. “It is a shame,” said he, “that you should be worried. What is it in this peaceable, beautiful forest troubles you?”

“Did you ever hear of a paradise without snakes?” she asked. “The very beauty of it makes them come here.”

“I have never yet known any paradise at all,” he replied. “But can’t you tell me what it is that troubles you?”

Margery looked at him with her clear, large eyes. “I’ll tell you,” she said, “if you will promise not to do a single thing without my permission.”

“I promise that,” said Clyde, eagerly.

“I am troubled by people making love to me.”

“People!” exclaimed Clyde, with a puzzled air.

“Yes,” said she. “Your cousin is one of them.”

“I might have supposed that; but who on earth can be the other one?”

“That is Martin,” said Margery.

For a moment Mr. Clyde did not seem to understand, and then he exclaimed: “You don’t mean the young man who cuts wood and helps Matlack?”

“Yes, I do,” she answered. “And you need not shut your jaw hard and grit your teeth that way. That is exactly what he did when he found out about Mr. Raybold. It is of no use to get angry, for you can’t do anything without my permission; and, besides, I tell you that if I were condemned by a court to be made love to, I would much rather have Martin make it than Mr. Raybold. Martin is a good deal more than a guide; he has a good education, and would not be here if it were not for his love of nature. He is going to make nature his object in life, and there is something noble in that; a great deal better than trying to strut about on the stage.”

“And those two have really been making love to you?” asked Clyde.

“Yes, really,” she answered. “You never saw people more in earnest in all your life. As for Mr. Raybold, he was as earnest as a cat after a bird. He made me furiously angry. Martin was different. He is just as earnest, but he is more of a gentleman; and when I told him what I wanted him to do, he said he would do it. But there is no use in telling your cousin what I want him to do. He is determined to persecute me and make me miserable, and there is no way of stopping it, except by making a quarrel between him and Uncle Archibald. It is a shame!” she went on, “Who could have thought that two people would have turned up to disturb me in this way.”

“Margery,” said Mr. Clyde, and although he called her by her Christian name she took no notice of it, “you think you have too many lovers: but you are mistaken. You have not enough; you ought to have three.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“Yes,” he said, quickly, “and I want to be the third.”

“And so make matters three times as bad as they were at first?” she asked.

“Not at all,” said he. “When you have chosen one of them, he could easily keep away the two others.”

“Do you mean,” said Margery, “that if I were to agree to have three, and then, if I were to ask you to do it, you would go away quietly with one of the others and leave me in peace with the third one?”

Mr. Clyde half smiled, but instantly grew serious again, and a flush came on his face. “Margery,” said he, “I cannot bear trifling any more about this. No matter what anybody has said to you, whether it is any one in this camp or any one out of it, there is not a man in this world who—”

“Oh, Mr. Clyde,” interrupted Margery, “you must not sit there and speak to me in such an excited way. If any one should see us they would think we were quarrelling. Let us go down to the lake; the air from the water is cool and soothing.”

Together they walked from under the shade of the tree, and so wended their way that it brought them to a mass of shrubbery which edged the water a little distance down the lake. On the other side of this shrubbery was a pretty bank, which they had seen before.

“It always tranquillizes me,” said Margery, as they stood side by side on the bank, “to look out over the water. Doesn’t it have that effect on you?”

“No!” exclaimed Clyde. “It does not tranquillize me a bit. Nothing could tranquillize me at a moment like this. Margery, I want you to know that I love you. I did not intend to tell you so soon, but what you have said makes it necessary. I have loved you ever since I met you at Peter Sadler’s, and, no matter what you say about it, I shall love you to the end of my life.”

“Even if I should send you away with one of the others?”

“Yes; no matter what you did.”

“That would be wrong,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter. Right or wrong, I’d do it.”

Margery gave him a glance from which it would have been impossible to eliminate all signs of admiration. “And if I were to arrange it otherwise,” she said, “would you undertake to keep the others away?”

There was no answer to this question, but in a minute afterwards Clyde exclaimed: “Do you think any one would dare to come near you if they saw you now?”

“Hardly,” said Margery, raising her head from his shoulder and looking up into his sparkling eyes. “Really, Harrison, you ought not to speak in such a loud voice. If Aunt Harriet were to hear you she might dare to come.”

Margery was late to dinner, although the horn was blown three times.

Much to the surprise of his wife, Mr. Archibald returned to camp about an hour before dinner.

“How is this?” she exclaimed. “Wasn’t the fishing good?”

“I have had a disagreeable experience,” he said, “and I will tell you about it. I was fishing in a little cove some distance down the lake and having good sport, when I heard a thumping, and looking around I saw Raybold in a boat rowing towards me. I suppose he thought he was rowing, but he was really floating with the current; but as he neared me he suddenly pulled his boat towards me with such recklessness that I was afraid he would run into me. I considered his rowing into the cove to be a piece of bad manners, for of course it would spoil my fishing, but I had no idea he actually intended to lay alongside of me. This he did, however, and so awkwardly that his boat struck mine with such force that it half tipped it over. Then he lay hold of my gunwale, and said he had something to say to me.

“I was as angry as if a man in the street had knocked my hat down over my eyes and said that he did so in order to call my attention to a subscription paper. But this indignation was nothing to what I felt when the fellow began to speak. I cannot repeat his words, but he stated his object at once, and said that as this was a good opportunity to speak to me alone, he wished to ask me to remove what he called the utterly useless embargo which I had placed upon him in regard to Margery. He said it was useless because he could not be expected to give up his hopes and his plans simply because I objected to them; and he went on to say that if I understood him fully, and if Margery understood him, he did not believe that either of us would object. And then he actually asked me to use my influence with her to make her listen to him. From what he said, I am sure he has been speaking to her. I did not let him finish, but turned and blazed at him in words as strong as would come to me. I ordered him never to speak to me again or show himself in my camp, and told him that if he did either of these things he would do them at his peril; and then, for fear he might say something which would make me lose control of myself, I jerked up my anchor and rowed away from him. I didn’t feel like fishing any more, and so I came back.”

“His behavior is shameful,” said Mrs. Archibald. “And what is more, it is ridiculous, for Margery would not look at him. What sort of a man does he think you are, to suppose that you would give your permission to any one, no matter who he might be, to offer marriage to a young lady in your charge? But what are you going to do about it? I think it very likely he will come to this camp, and he may speak to you.”

“In that case I shall have him driven out,” said Mr. Archibald, “as if he were a drunken vagabond. Personally I shall have nothing to do with him, but I shall order my guides to eject him.”

“I hope that may not be necessary,” said his wife. “It would make bad feeling, and deeply wound his sister, for it would be the same thing as putting her out. She talks too much, to be sure, but she is a lady, and has treated us all very courteously. I wish we could get through the rest of our stay here without any disturbance or bad feeling.”

“I wish so too, with all my heart,” said her husband. “And the only thing necessary to that end is that that ass Raybold shall keep out of my sight.”

It was about two o’clock that afternoon, and Mrs. Archibald, under her tree, her basket of stockings all darned and her novel at its culminating point of interest, was the only visible occupant of Camp Rob, when Corona Raybold came walking towards her, an obvious purpose in her handsome face, which was somewhat flushed by exercise.

“I do not think,” she said, as soon as she was near enough for Mrs. Archibald to hear her, “that the true purpose and intention of our plan is properly understood by all of the party. I think, after some explanation, everything will go well, but I have been endeavoring for the last half-hour to find Mrs. Perkenpine, and have utterly failed. I am very hungry, but I can discover nothing to eat. All our stores appear to be absolutely raw, or in some intermediate state of crudity. I intend to order some provisions in cans or boxes which will be at all times available, but I have not done so yet, and so I have come over to speak to you about the matter. Did your guides prepare your dinner as usual?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Archibald. “A hermit life seems to make no difference with Mr. Matlack. We become associates at meal-times, but, as you see, we have separated again.”

“I must instil into Mrs. Perkenpine’s mind,” said Corona, “that, in order thoroughly to act out her own nature, she must cook and do other things of a domestic character. Of course she will do those things in her own way; that is to be expected; but she must do them. It is impossible to imagine a woman of her class whose soul is not set more or less upon domestic affairs. I will instance Mr. Matlack. His nature belongs to the woods and the out-of-door world, and that nature prompts him to cook what he shoots.”

Mrs. Archibald laughed. “I think his nature is a very good one,” she said, “and I will go with you to find him and see if he cannot give you a luncheon, if not a dinner.”

“Thank you very much,” said Corona; “but indeed I do not wish to trouble you. I will go to him myself. You are very kind, but it is not in the least degree necessary for you to accompany me. A cup of tea and some little trifle is all I shall ask him for.”

For a moment Mrs. Archibald hesitated, and then she said, “As we are hermits, I suppose we must not keep together any more than we can help, and so I will let you go alone.”

Corona found Phil Matlack by his kitchen tent, busily engaged in rubbing the inside of a large kettle. He was not in a good humor. The departure of Martin had thrown all the work of his camp upon him, and now the appearance of a person from another camp requesting to be fed aroused him to absolute anger. He did not scold, for it would have been impossible to look at that beautiful and imperturbable face and say hard words to it. He did not refuse the cup of tea or the bread-and-butter for which he was asked, and he even added some cold meat; but he indignantly made up his mind that he would stand no more of this nonsense, and that if necessary he would go to Sadler and throw up the job. He had not engaged to cook for three camps.

Miss Raybold did not appear to notice his state of mind, and ate heartily. She thought it was fortunate that he happened to have the kettle on the stove, and she asked him how he liked the hermit life—the living for himself alone.

“Haven’t tried it,” he answered, curtly.

“I understand,” said Corona, “you have had to live too much for other people; but it is too soon to expect our plan to run smoothly. In a short time, however, we shall be better able to know our own natures and show them to others.”

“Oh, I can do that,” said he; “and I am goin’ to, precious soon.”

“I have no doubt of it,” she answered. “And now can you tell me where Mr. Archibald has gone? I did not see him this morning, and there are some matters I wish to speak to him about.”

“No, miss,” said Matlack, promptly, “I don’t know where he is. He’s a real hermit. He’s off by himself, most likely miles away.”

Corona reflected. “Mr.—the bishop? Have you seen him? He may be able to—”

The guide grinned grimly. He had seen the man of muscle—not fat—conversing that morning with Corona, and an hour afterwards he had seen him, not in the same place, but in the same companionship, and it gave him a certain pleasure to know that the man who could heave rocks and break young trees could not relieve himself from the thralls of the lady of the flowing speech.

“The bishop?” said he. “Don’t you know where he went to?”

“He left me,” she answered, “because he was obliged to go to prepare dinner for my brother and Mr. Clyde; but he is not in Camp Roy now, for I went there to look for Mrs. Perkenpine.”

“Well,” said the wicked Matlack, pointing to the spot where, not long before, Margery had found a tranquillizing breeze, “I saw him going along with a book a little while ago, and I think he went down to the shore, just beyond that clump of bushes over there. He seems to be a man who likes readin’, which isn’t a bad thing for a hermit.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Raybold, rising. “I do not care for anything more. You are very kind, and I am quite sure I shall not have to trouble you again. To-morrow everything will be running smoothly.”

Matlack looked at her as she quietly walked away. “She’s a pretty sort of a hermit,” he said to himself. “If she really had to live by herself she’d cut out a wooden man and talk to it all day. It won’t be long before she accidentally stumbles over that big fellow with his book.”