When a strange young man assisted Matlack at the supper-table that evening, Mr. Archibald asked what had become of Martin.

“Peter Sadler has sent him away,” answered the guide. “I don’t know where he sent him or what he sent him for. But he’s a young man who’s above this sort of business, and so I suppose he’s gone off to take up something that’s more elevated.”

“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Archibald, “for I liked him.”

Mr. Archibald smiled. “This business of insisting upon our own individualities,” he said, “seems to have worked very promptly in his case. I suppose he found out he was fitted for something better than a guide, and immediately went off to get that better thing.”

“That’s about the size of it,” said Matlack.

Margery said nothing. Her heart sank. She could not help feeling that what she had said to the young man had been the cause of his sudden departure. Could he have done such a thing, she thought, as really to go and ask Mr. Sadler, and, having found he did not mind, could he have gone to see her mother? Her appetite for her supper departed, and she soon rose and strolled away, and as she strolled the thought came again to her that it was a truly dreadful thing to be a girl.

Having received no orders to the contrary, Matlack, with his new assistant, built and lighted the camp-fire. Some of the hermits took this as a matter of course, and some were a little surprised, but one by one they approached; the evening air was beginning to be cool, and the vicinity of the fire was undoubtedly the pleasantest place in camp. Soon they were all assembled but one, and Mrs. Archibald breathed freer when she found that Arthur Raybold was not there.

“I am delighted,” said Corona, as soon as she took her usual seat, which was a camp-chair, “to see you all gather about the fire. I was afraid that some of you might think that because we are hermits we must keep away from each other all the time. But we must remember that we are associate hermits, and so should come together occasionally. I was going to say something to the effect that some of us may have misunderstood the true manner and intent of the assertions of our individualities, but I do not now believe that this is necessary.”

“Do you mean by all that,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “that I cooked the supper?”

“Yes,” said Miss Raybold, turning upon her guide with a pleasant smile, “that is what I referred to.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “I was told that if I didn’t cook I’d be bounced. It isn’t my individdlety to cook for outsiders, but it isn’t my individdlety to be bounced, nuther, so I cooked. Is that bein’ a hermick?”

“You have it,” cried Mr. Archibald, “you’ve not only found out what you are, but what you have to be. Your knowledge of yourself is perfect. And now,” he continued, “isn’t there somebody who can tell us a story? When we are sitting around a camp-fire, there is nothing better than stories. Bishop, I dare say you have heard a good many in the course of your life. Don’t you feel like giving us one?”

“I think,” said Corona, “that by the aid of stories it is possible to get a very good idea of ourselves. For instance, if some one were to tell a good historical story, and any one of us should find himself or herself greatly interested in it, then that person might discover, on subsequent reflection, some phase of his or her intellect which he or she might not have before noticed. On the other hand, if it should be a love story, and some of us could not bear to hear it, then we might also find out something about ourselves of which we had been ignorant. But I really think that, before making any tests of this sort, we should continue the discussion of what is at present the main object of our lives—self-knowledge and self-assertion. In other words, the emancipation of the individual. As I have said before, and as we all know, there never was a better opportunity offered a group of people of mature minds to subject themselves, free of outside influences, to a thorough mental inquisition, and then to exhibit the results of their self-examinations to appreciative companions. This last is very important. If we do not announce to others what we are, it is of scarcely any use to be anything. I mean this, of course, in a limited sense.”

“Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, abruptly, “do you remember where I left my pipe? I do not like this cigar.”

“On the shelf by the door of the cabin,” she replied. “I saw it as I came out.”

Her husband immediately rose and left the fire. Corona paused in her discourse to wait until Mr. Archibald came back; but then, as if she did not wish to lose the floor, she turned towards the bishop, who sat at a little distance from her, and addressed herself to him, with the idea of making some collateral remarks on what she had already said, in order to fill up the time until Mr. Archibald should return.

Mrs. Archibald thought that her husband had been a little uncivil; but almost immediately after he had gone, she, too, jumped up, and, without making any excuse whatever, hurried after him.

The reason for this sudden movement was that Mrs. Archibald had seen some one approaching from the direction of Camp Roy. She instantly recognized this person as Arthur Raybold, and felt sure that, unwilling to stay longer by himself, he was coming to the camp-fire, and if her husband should see him, she knew there would be trouble. What sort of trouble or how far it might extend she did not try to imagine.

“Hector,” she said, as soon as she was near enough for him to hear her, “don’t go after the pipe; let us take a moonlight walk along the shore. I believe it is full moon to-night, and we have not had a walk of that sort for ever so long.”

“Very good,” said her husband, turning to her. “I shall be delighted. I don’t care for the pipe, and the cigar would have been good enough if it had not been for the sermon. That would spoil any pleasure. I can’t stand that young woman, Harriet; I positively cannot.”

“Well, then, let us walk away and forget her,” said his wife. “I don’t wonder she annoys you.”

“If it were only the young woman,” thought Mrs. Archibald, as the two strolled away beneath the light of the moon, “we might manage it. But her brother!”

At the next indication of a pause in Corona’s discourse the bishop suddenly stood on his feet. “I wonder,” he said, “if there is anything the matter with Mrs. Archibald? I will step over to her cabin to see.”

“Indeed!” said Corona, rising with great promptness, “I hope it is nothing serious. I will go with you.”

Margery was not a rude girl, but she could not help a little laugh, which she subdued as much as possible; Mr. Clyde, who was sitting near her, laughed also.

“There is nothing on earth the matter with Aunt Harriet,” said Margery. “They didn’t go into the cabin; I saw them walking away down the shore.”

“How would you like to walk that way?” he asked. “I think their example is a very good one.”

“It is capital,” said Margery, jumping up, “and let’s get away quickly before she comes back.”

They hurried away, but they did not extend their walk down the lake shore even as far as Mr. and Mrs. Archibald had already gone. When they came to the bit of beach behind the clump of trees where the bishop had retired that afternoon to read, they stopped and sat down to watch the moonlight on the water.

Matlack and Mrs. Perkenpine were now the only persons at the camp-fire, for Bill Hammond, as was his custom, had promptly gone to bed as soon as his work was done. If Arthur Raybold had intended to come to the camp-fire, he had changed his mind, for he now stood near his sister’s tent, apparently awaiting the approach of Corona and the bishop, who had not found the Archibalds, and who were now walking together in what might have been supposed, by people who did not know the lady, to be an earnest dialogue.

Mr. Matlack was seated on his log, and he smoked, while Mrs. Perkenpine sat on the ground, her head thrown back and her arms hugging her knees.

“Phil,” said she, “that there moon looks to me like an oyster with a candle behind it, and as smooth and slippery as if I could jest swallow it down. You may think it is queer for me to think such things as that, Phil, but since I’ve come to know myself jest as I am, me, I’ve found out feelin’s—”

“Mrs. Perkenpine,” said Matlack, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “there’s a good many things besides moons that I can’t swallow, and if it’s all the same to you, I’ll go to bed.”

“Well,” she exclaimed, looking after him, “his individdlety is the snapshortest I ever did see! I don’t believe he wants to know hisself. If he did, I’m dead sure I could help him. He never goes out to run a camp without somebody to help him, and yet he’s so everlastin’ blind he can’t see the very best person there is to help him, and she a-plumpin’ herself square in front of him every time she gits a chance.” With that reflection she rose and walked away.

“I tell you, Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, when he and his wife had returned from their walk and were about to enter the cabin, “something must be done to enable us to spend the rest of our time here in peace. This is our camp, and we want it for ourselves. If a good companionable fellow like the bishop or that young Clyde happens along, it is all very well, but we do not want all sorts of people forcing themselves upon us, and I will not submit to it.”

“Of course we ought not to do that,” said she, “but I hope that whatever you do, it will be something as pleasant as possible.”

“I will try to avoid any unpleasantness,” said he, “and I hope I may do so, but—— By-the-way, where is Margery?”

“I think she must be in bed,” said Mrs. Archibald; then stepping inside, she called, “Margery, are you there?”

“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” replied Margery, “I am here.”

“She must have found it dreadfully stupid, poor girl!” said Mr. Archibald.

The lights were all out in the Archibalds’ cabin, and still Miss Raybold and the bishop walked up and down the open space at the farther end of the camp.

“Corona!” exclaimed her brother, suddenly appearing before them, “I have told you over and over again that I wish to speak to you. Are you never going to stop that everlasting preaching and give me a chance to talk to you?”

“Arthur!” she exclaimed, sharply, “I wish you would not interrupt me in this way. I had just begun to say—”

“Oh, my dear Miss Raybold,” cried the bishop, “do not let me prevent you from speaking to your brother. Indeed, it is growing late, and I will not trespass longer on your time. Good-night,” and with a bow he was gone.

“Now just see what you have done!” said Corona, her eye-glasses brighter than the moon.

“Well, it is time he was going,” said her brother. “I have something very important to say to you. I want your good offices in an affair more worthy of your thoughts than anything else at this moment.”

“Whatever it is,” she said, turning away from him, “I do not want to hear it now—not a word of it. You have displeased me, Arthur, and I am going to my tent.”