It was the bishop who first appreciated the fact that a certain air of loneliness had descended upon the shore of the lake. He had prepared breakfast at his camp, but as Mr. Clyde did not make his appearance he went to Camp Rob to look for him. There he saw Matlack and his assistant busy in their kitchen tent, and Mrs. Perkenpine was also engaged in culinary matters. He had left Arthur Raybold asleep at Camp Roy, but of the ladies and gentleman who were usually visible at the breakfast-hour at Camp Rob he saw no signs, and he approached Mrs. Perkenpine to inquire for Clyde. At his question the sturdy woman turned and smiled. It was a queer smile, reminding the bishop of the opening and shutting of a farm gate.

“He’s a one-er,” said she. “Do you suppose he could ketch a rabbit, no matter how fast he ran?”

“Come, now,” said the bishop, “he wasn’t trying to do that?”

“He was either doin’ that, or else he was runnin’ away. I seed him early this mornin’—I wasn’t up, but I was lookin’ round—and I thought from the way he was actin’ that he’d set a rabbit-trap and was goin’ to see if he’d caught anything, and pretty soon I seed him runnin’ like Sam Hill, as if his rabbit had got away from him. But perhaps it wasn’t that, and maybe somebody skeered him. Anyway, he’s clean gone.”

The bishop stood and reflected; the affair looked serious. Clyde was a practical, sensible fellow—and he was gone. Why did he go?

“Have you seen any of the Archibalds yet?” he asked.

“No,” said she; “I guess they’re not up yet, though it’s late for them. My young woman ain’t up nuther, but it ain’t late for her.”

The bishop walked slowly towards the cabin and regarded it earnestly. After a few minutes inspection he stepped up to the door and knocked. Then he knocked again and again, and hearing nothing from within he became alarmed, and ran to Matlack.

“Hello!” he cried. “Something has happened to your people, or they have gone away. Come to the cabin, quick!”

In less than a minute Matlack, the bishop, and Bill Hammond were at the cabin, and the unfastened door was opened wide. No one was in the house, that was plain enough, but on the floor were four bags packed for transportation.

Matlack looked about him, and then he laughed. “All right,” said he; “there ain’t no need of worryin’ ourselves. They haven’t left a thing of theirs about, everything’s packed up and ready to be sent for. When people do that, you may be sure nothing’s happened to them. They’ve gone off, and I bet it’s to get rid of that young woman’s preachin’. But I don’t blame them; I don’t wonder they couldn’t stand it.”

The bishop made no reply. Remembering his recent conversation with Mrs. Archibald, he believed that, if they had quietly gone away, there was a better reason for it than Miss Raybold’s fluency of expression. It was possible that something might have happened after he had retired from the scene the night before, for when he went to sleep Raybold was still walking up and down in the moonlight.

His mind was greatly disturbed. They were gone, and he was left. “What are you going to do?” he asked Matlack.

“Nothin’ just now,” said the guide. “If they don’t send for their things pretty soon, I’ll go over to Sadler’s and find out what’s the matter. But they’re all right. Look how careful them bags is strapped up!”

The bishop left the cabin and walked thoughtfully away in the direction of Camp Roy. In two minutes he had made up his mind: he would eat his breakfast—he could not travel upon an empty stomach—and then he would depart. That was imperative.

When he reached the camp he found that Raybold had risen and was pouring out for himself a bowl of coffee. Seeing the bishop approach, the young man’s face grew dark, as might have been expected from the events of the night before, and he hurriedly placed some articles of food upon a plate, and was about leaving the stove when the bishop reached him. Raybold turned with a frown, and what was meant to be a glare.

“I shall bide my time,” said he, and with his coffee and his plate he retired to a distance.

The bishop smiled but made no answer, and sat down and ate his meal in peace; then he prepared to depart. He had nothing but a little bag, and it did not take long to put in order the simple culinary department of the camp. When all was done he stood for some minutes thinking. There was a path through the woods which led to the road, so that he might go on to Sadler’s without the knowledge of any one at Camp Rob, but he felt that he ought to see Matlack and tell him that he was going. If anything went wrong at Camp Roy he did not wish to be held responsible for it. Mr. Archibald could afford to go away without saying anything about it, but he could not, and, besides, if he should happen to see Miss Raybold it would be far more gentlemanly to tell her that he was going and to bid her goodbye, than to slip off through the woods like a tramp. He would go, that he was determined upon; but he would go like a man.

When he reached Camp Rob the first person he saw was Miss Raybold, standing near her tent with a roll of paper in her hand. The moment she perceived him she walked rapidly towards him.

“Good-morning,” she said. “Did you know that the Archibalds had gone? I never was so amazed in all my life. I was eating my breakfast when a man and a cart drove up to their cabin, and Mrs. Perkenpine, running to see what this meant, soon came back and told me that the family of three had departed in the night, and had sent this cart for their baggage. I think this was a very uncivil proceeding, and I do not in the least understand it. Can you imagine any reason for this extremely uncourteous action?”

The bishop could imagine reasons, but he did not care to state them.

“It may be,” he said, with a smile, “that they discovered that their natures demanded hotel beds instead of camp cots, and that they immediately departed in obedience to the mandates of their individualities.”

“But in so doing,” said Miss Raybold, “they violated the principles of association. Our scheme included mutual confidence as well as self-investigation and assertion. I must admit that Mr. Archibald disappointed me. I think he misunderstood my project. By holding one’s self entirely aloof from humanity one encourages self-ignorance. But perhaps our party was somewhat too large—the elements too many and inharmonious—and I see no reason why we who remain should relinquish our purpose. I believe it will be easier for us to become truly ourselves than when our number was greater, and so I propose that we make no change whatever in our plans; that we live on, for the time agreed upon, exactly as if the Archibalds were here. And now, if you have a few minutes to spare, I would like to read you something I wrote this morning before I left my tent. I was awake during the night, and thought for a long time upon the subject of mental assimilation, the discussion of which we did not finish last evening, and this morning, while my thoughts were fresh, I put them upon paper, and now I would like to read them to you. Isn’t there some shady place where we might sit down? There are two camp-chairs; will you kindly place them under this tree?”

The bishop sighed, but he went for the chairs. It would be too hard for him to tell her he was going to leave the camp, and he would not try to do it. He would slip off as soon as he had a chance, and leave a note for her. She would not perhaps like that, but it was the best he could do.

The reading of the paper occupied at least half an hour, and when it was finished, and Corona had begun to make some remarks on a portion of it which she had not fully elaborated, Mrs. Perkenpine approached, and stood before her.

“Well, miss,” said she, “I’m off.”

Miss Raybold fixed her eye-glasses upon her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ back to Sadler’s,” she replied. “Phil’s goin’, and I’m goin’. He’s jest told me that the cart’s comin’ back for the kitchen fixin’s and his things, and him and Bill Hammond is goin’ to Sadler’s with it; and if he goes, I goes.”

This speech had a very different effect upon its two hearers. Corona was as nearly angry as her self-contained nature would permit; but, although he did not allow his feelings to betray him, the bishop was delighted. Now they must all go, and that suited him exactly.

“It is a positive and absolute breach of contract!” exclaimed Miss Raybold. “You agreed to remain in my service during my stay in camp, and you have no right to go away now, no matter who else may depart.”

Mrs. Perkenpine grinned. “That sort of thing was all very well a week ago,” said she, “but it won’t work now. I’ve been goin’ to school to myself pretty steady, and I’ve kept myself in a good deal, too, for not knowin’ my lessons, and I’ve drummed into me a pretty good idea of what I be, and I can tell you I’m not a woman as stays here when Phil Matlack’s gone. I’m not a bit scary, but I never stayed in camp yet with all greenhorns but me. When I find myself in that sort of a mess, it’s my nater to get out of it. Phil says he’s goin’ to start the fust thing this afternoon, and that’s the time I’m goin’, and so, if you would like to go, you can send word by that man in the cart to have you and your things sent for, and we can all clear out together.”

“Positively,” exclaimed Corona, turning to the bishop, “this is the most high-handed proceeding I ever heard of!”

“That’s ’xactly what I think,” said Mrs. Perkenpine; “it most takes my breath away to think how high-handed I am. Before I knowed myself I couldn’t have been that way to save my skin. There didn’t use to be any individdlety about me. You might take a quart of huckleberries and ask yourself what it was particular ’bout any one of them huckleberries—’xceptin’ it might be green, and it’s a long time since I was that way—and you’d know jest as much about that huckleberry as I knowed about myself. Now it’s different. It’s just the same as if there was only one huckleberry in a quart box, and it ain’t no trouble to see all around that.”

“I think, Miss Raybold,” said the bishop, “that this good woman has prosecuted her psychical researches with more effect than any of us.”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Miss Raybold. “Do you really think I must leave this camp at the dictation of that person?”

“’Scuse me,” said Mrs. Perkenpine, “but I’m goin’ to scratch things together for movin’. We’ll have dinner here, and then we’ll pack up and be off as soon as the carts come. That’s what Phil says he’s goin’ to do.”

With a satisfied mind and internal gratitude to Mrs. Perkenpine, who had made everything easy for him, the bishop endeavored to make Corona feel that, as her departure from the camp was inevitable, it would be well not to disturb her mind too much about it. But it was of no use trying to console the lady.

“It is too bad,” she said; “it is humiliating. Here I believed that I was truly myself; that I was an independent entity; that I was free to assert my individual nature and to obey its impulses, and now I find that I am nothing but the slave of a female guide. Actually I must obey her, and I must conform to her!”

“It is true,” said the bishop, musingly, “that although we may discover ourselves, and be greatly pleased with the prospect of what we see, we may not be permitted to enter into its enjoyment, and must content ourselves with looking over the fence and longing for what we see.”

Corona faintly smiled. “When we have climbed high enough to see over that fence,” she said, “it becomes our duty to break it down.”

“When I was in England,” said the bishop, “I saw a fence—an oak fence—which they told me had stood for four hundred years. It looked awfully tough, and it now reminds me of some of the manners and customs of civilization.”

“When you were in England,” said Corona, “did you visit Newnham College?”

He never had. But she told him that she had been there for two years. “And now,” she continued, “there may be time enough before I must pack up my effects to finish what I was going to say to you about approximate assimilations.”