Mrs. Archibald retired to her cabin, but she did not feel in the least like going to bed. Her husband had long been asleep in his cot, and she still sat by the side of the little window looking out upon the moon-lighted scene; but the beauty of the night, if she noticed it at all, gave her no pleasure. Her mind was harassed and troubled by many things, chief among which was her husband’s unfinished sentence in which he had said that he would try to avoid any unpleasantness, but at the same time had intimated that if the unpleasant thing were forced upon him he was ready to meet it.

Now, reason as she would, Mrs. Archibald could not banish from her mind the belief that Arthur Raybold would come to their camp some time during the next day. In fact, not having heard otherwise, she supposed he had come to the camp-fire that night. She was filled with anger and contempt for the young man who was determined to force himself on their party in this outrageous manner, and considered it shameful that their peaceful life in these woods had been so wickedly disturbed. No wonder she did not want to sleep; no wonder she sat at the window thinking and thinking.

Presently she saw some one walking over the open space towards the cabin, and she could not fail to recognize the figure with the long stride, the folded arms, and the bowed head. He passed the window and then he turned and repassed it, then he turned and walked by again, this time a little nearer than before.

“This is too much!” said Mrs. Archibald. “The next thing he will be tapping at her window. I will go out and speak my mind to him.”

Opening the door very softly, and without even stopping to throw a shawl over her head and shoulders, Mrs. Archibald stepped outside into the night. Raybold was now at a little distance from the cabin, in the direction of Camp Roy, and was just about to turn when she hurried up to him.

“Mr. Raybold,” she said, speaking low and rapidly, “if you possessed a spark of gentlemanly feeling you would be ashamed to come into this camp when you have been ordered out of it. My husband has told you he does not want you here, and now I tell you that I do not want you here. It pains me to be obliged to speak to any one in this manner, but it is plain that no other sort of speech will affect you. Now, sir, I know your object, and I will not have you wandering up and down here in front of our cabin. I wish you to go to your own camp, and that immediately.”

Raybold stood and listened to her without a word until she had finished, and then he said:

“Madam, there has been a good deal of talk about knowing ourselves and showing ourselves to others. Now I know myself very well indeed, and I will show myself to you by saying that when my heart is interested I obey no orders, I pay no attention to mandates of any sort. Until I can say what I have to say I will watch and I will wait, but I shall not draw back.”

For the first time in fifteen years Mrs. Archibald lost her temper. She turned pale with anger. “You contemptible scoundrel! Go! Leave this camp instantly!”

He stood with arms folded and smiled at her, saying nothing. She trembled, she was so angry. But what could she do? If she called Mr. Archibald, or if he should be awakened by any outcry, she feared there would be bloodshed, and if she went to call Matlack, Mr. Archibald would be sure to be awakened. But at this moment some one stepped up quickly behind Raybold, and with a hand upon his shoulder, partly turned him around.

“I think,” said the bishop, “that I heard this lady tell you to go. If so, go.”

“I did say it,” said Mrs. Archibald, hurriedly. “Please be as quiet as you can, but make him go.”

“Do you hear what Mrs. Archibald says?” asked the bishop, sternly. “Depart, or—”

“Do you mean to threaten me?” asked Raybold.

The bishop stepped close to him. “Will you go of your own accord,” he asked, “or do you wish me to take you away?”

He spoke quietly, but with an earnestness that impressed itself upon Raybold, who made a quick step backward. He felt a natural repugnance, especially in the presence of a lady, to be taken away by this big man, who, in the moonlight, seemed to be bigger than ever.

“I will speak to you,” said he, “when there are no ladies present.” And with this he retired.

“I am so much obliged to you,” said Mrs. Archibald. “It was a wonderful piece of good fortune that you should have come at this minute.”

The bishop smiled. “I am delighted that I happened here,” he said. “I heard so much talking this evening that I thought I would tranquillize my mind by a quiet walk by myself before I went to bed, and so I happened to see you and Raybold. Of course I had no idea of intruding upon you, but when I saw you stretch out your arm and say ‘Go!’ I thought it was time for me to come.”

“I feel bound to say to you,” said Mrs. Archibald, “that that impertinent fellow is persisting in his attentions to Miss Dearborn, and that Mr. Archibald and I will not have it.”

“I imagined that the discussion was on that subject,” said the bishop, “for Mr. Clyde has intimated to me that Raybold has been making himself disagreeable to the young lady.”

“I do not know what we are going to do,” said Mrs. Archibald, reflectively; “there seems to be no way of making an impression upon him. He is like his sister—he will have his own way.”

“Yes,” said the bishop, with a sigh, “he is like his sister. But then, one might thrash him, but what can be done with her? I tell you, Mrs. Archibald,” he said, turning to her, earnestly, “it is getting to be unbearable. The whole evening, ever since you left the camp-fire, she has been talking to me on the subject of mental assimilation—that is, the treatment of our ideas and thoughts as if they were articles of food—intellectual soda biscuit, or plum pudding, for instance—in order to find out whether our minds can digest these things and produce from them the mental chyme and chyle necessary to our intellectual development. The discourse was fortunately broken off for to-night, but there is more of it for to-morrow. I really cannot stand it.”

“I wouldn’t stand it,” said Mrs. Archibald. “Can’t you simply go away and leave her when she begins in that way?”

The bishop shook his head. “No,” he said, “that is impossible. When those beautiful eyes are fixed upon me I cannot go away. They charm me and they hold me. Unless there is an interruption, I must stay and listen. The only safety for me is to fly from this camp. At last,” he said, smiling a little sadly, “I am going to go. I did not want to do this until your camp broke up, but I must.”

“And you are really going to-morrow?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I have positively decided upon that.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” she said. “Good-night.”

When Mrs. Archibald entered her cabin she found her husband sleeping soundly, and she again sat down by the window. There was no such thing as sleep for her; her mind was more tossed and troubled than it had been before she went out. The fact that the bishop was going away made the matter worse, for just as she had found out that he was willing to help her, and that he might be able to keep Raybold away from them without actual violence—for she saw that the young boaster was afraid of him—he had told her he must leave, and in her heart she did not blame him. With great fear and anxiety she looked forward to the morrow.

It was about two o’clock when Mrs. Archibald suddenly arose from her seat by the window and lighted a candle. Then she pulled down the shades of the windows, front and back, after which she went to her husband’s cot and put her hand upon his shoulder.

“Hector,” said she, “wake up.”

In a moment Mr. Archibald was staring at her. “What is the matter?” he exclaimed. “Are you sick?”

“No,” said she, “but I have something very important to say to you. I want you to get up and go away with me, and take Margery.”

Mr. Archibald sat up in bed. He was now in full possession of his senses. “What!” said he, “elope? And where to?”

“Yes,” said she, “that is exactly what I mean, and we will go to Sadler’s first, and then home.”

“Do you mean now?” said he.

“Yes—that is, as soon as it is light,” she replied.

“Are you positively sure you are awake, Harriet?” asked Mr. Archibald.

“Awake!” she said. “I have not been asleep to-night. Don’t you see I am dressed?” And she drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. “I know more about what is going on than you do, Hector,” she said, “and I tell you if we stay any longer in this camp, there is going to be great trouble. That young Raybold pays no attention to what you said about keeping away from us. He comes here, when he pleases, and he says he intends to come. I asked you to take a walk with me this evening because I saw him coming to the camp-fire and I knew that you would resent it. To-night I saw him walking up and down in front of our cabin, and I believe he intended to try to speak to Margery. I went out to him myself, and he was positively insulting. If the bishop had not happened to come up, I believe he would have stayed here and defied me. But he made him go.

“Now that you know this, Hector, it is very certain that there will be trouble between you and that young man, and I do not want that. And, besides that, there is his sister; she is as determined to preach as he is to speak to Margery. The bishop says he can’t stand her any longer, and he is going away to-morrow, and that will make it all the worse for us—especially for you, Hector. I cannot endure this state of things; it has made me so nervous I cannot get to sleep, and, besides, it is not right for us to keep Margery where she must be continually guarded from such a man. Now it may seem foolish to run away, but I have thought over the matter for hours and hours, and it is the only thing to do; and what is more, it is very easy to do. If we announce that we are going, we will all go, and the chief cause of quarrels and danger will go with us. I know you, Hector; you will not stand his impertinence.

“It will be daylight between three and four o’clock, and we three can start out quietly and have a pleasant walk to Sadler’s. It is only four miles, and we can take our time. We need not carry anything with us but what we choose to put in our pockets. We can pack our bags and leave them here, and Mr. Sadler will send for them. When we get there we can go to bed if we like, and have time enough for a good sleep before breakfast, and then we can take the morning stage and leave this place and everybody in it. Now please don’t be hasty and tell me all this is foolish. Remember, if you stay here you have a quarrel on your hands, and I shall have hours of misery until that quarrel is settled; and no matter how it is settled, things will be disagreeable afterwards.”

“Harriet,” said Mr. Archibald, suddenly twisting himself so that he sat on the side of the bed, “your idea is a most admirable one. It suits me exactly. Let us run away. It is impossible for us to do anything better than that. Have you told Margery?”

“No,” she answered, “but I will go to her at once.”

“Be quick and quiet, then,” said her husband, who had now entered fully into the spirit of the adventure; “nobody must hear us. I will dress, and then we will pack.”

“Margery,” said Mrs. Archibald, after three times shaking the sleeping girl, “you must get up. Your uncle and I are going away, and you must go with us.”

Margery turned her great eyes on Mrs. Archibald, but asked no questions.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Archibald, “we cannot stay in this camp any longer, on account of Mr. Raybold and various other things. Matters have come to a crisis, and we must go, and more than that, we must slip away so that the others may not go with us.”

“When?” asked Margery, now speaking for the first time.

“As soon as it is daylight.”

“So soon as that?” said the girl, a shadow on her brow which was very plain in the light of the candle which Mrs. Archibald had brought with her. “Surely not before breakfast?”

“Margery,” said Mrs. Archibald, a little sharply, “you do not seem to understand—you are not awake; we must start as soon as it is light. But we cannot discuss it now. We are going, and you must go with us. You must get up and pack your things in your bag, which we shall send for.”

Suddenly a light came into Margery’s eyes and she sat up. “All right,” said she, “I will be ready as soon as you are. It will be jolly to run away, especially so early in the morning,” and with that she jumped out of bed.