  In the return of the Camp Fire girls to their own country there was one of the girls who was unreservedly glad. Not one word of regret, not an instant of repining for foreign lands, or scenes or friends, and this girl was Sally Ashton, notwithstanding the fact that Sally actually had been through more entertaining experiences than the other girls. However, these experiences had made but slight spiritual impression upon her, for Sally was a matter-of-fact and not an emotional person. She had nursed Lieutenant Fleury under curious circumstances in the story called “The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor”, but neither then nor afterwards had the young French lieutenant’s gratitude and affection for her wakened more than a friendly response. The same result followed her acquaintance with the young Englishman in “The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England.” Calmly Sally had announced in both instances that her own affection was indissolubly bound up with her own country and that her one desire was to return to the United States and to spend the rest of her life there. At present living with the Camp Fire girls in their cabin in the Adirondacks, Sally had become her placid and contented self. The war was over and she need not reflect upon the past, since it was of no avail to make herself unhappy with old memories. Moreover, although not particularly fond of the mountains, Sally preferred living in the country to the town and was now particularly pleased with their household arrangements. The camp in which they were planning to spend the winter was a more expensive mode of living than the Camp Fire girls appreciated and was possible only because of Miss Patricia Lord. Upon Captain and Mrs. Burton’s small estate, the last few years in Europe had made serious inroads. Indeed, one of the reasons for Mrs. Burton’s desire to return to her stage career was in order to increase their fortune. Her husband, Captain Richard Burton, was a number of years her senior and although an actor at the time of their marriage had no desire to continue his former profession. In the past years of Red Cross work he had lost interest and was out of touch with his old life and at present was continuing his Red Cross work, holding a position at a small salary in Washington. None of these details of other lives disturbed Sally Ashton. She was merely aware that their new camp was beautiful and comfortable and that she had the right to look forward to a long and peaceful winter. She and her sister, Alice, had spent a few months with their mother and father near Boston in the interval of their return from England and their arrival in the Adirondacks and were expecting their mother and father as guests at Christmas. Indeed, there were plans for a Christmas house party which would tax the capacity of the big cabin. Ordinarily the Camp Fire work was divided so that the girls were allowed to devote their energies to the tasks they preferred, and as Sally was more domestic in her tastes than any member of the Sunrise Camp Fire group, she was frequently allowed first choice. At present she had elected to have charge of the big living-room of the cabin and at this moment was engaged in putting it in order. She looked extremely young and pretty in her big blue apron which she wore over a brown serge frock, the girls having concluded to lay aside their khaki costumes, except on ceremonial occasions, because of the cold. Her brown hair, parted a little at one side, was brushed smoothly down across her forehead and into a large soft coil at the back of her head. Over it she wore a net, but little tendrils of curling brown hair showed on her temples and throat. Sally’s skin, ordinarily of a clear, warm pallor, was at present at its loveliest because she was especially happy and well. To Sally happiness meant peace and contentment rather than intensity of emotion or the constant movement of events. She leaned down now to thrust some white birch sticks under the great log that smouldered at the back of the mammoth fireplace. Behind the cabin the winter fire logs were piled so high as to suggest an old time pioneer fortification prepared against an attack by the Indians. Then when Sally arose she glanced about the big room. The floors were covered with thick, brightly colored rugs for warmth and cheerfulness. Until the advent of the Sunrise Camp Fire girls, the room had been conspicuously a man’s room. As a matter of fact, Tahawus cabin had been erected to serve as a clubhouse for a group of wealthy men who wished to enjoy the winter sports. But losing interest, Miss Patricia Lord had been able to rent it for the year. In the center of the room stood a long, heavy oak table sufficiently large for any number of books, magazines and newspapers. The chairs were upholstered in brown leather, while upon the stained walls were several fine paintings of scenes in the Adirondacks. The sofa was long enough for two of the Camp Fire girls to find repose at the same time. Above the mantel was a magnificent elk’s head. As a man’s club room, the room may have been appropriate, but for their purpose the Camp Fire girls and their guardian found it unsympathetic. The changes they had made were not important, and yet its entire character had altered. On the mantel were the Camp Fire candlesticks holding the three Camp Fire candles and Indian baskets and jars filled with autumn leaves, bright red berries and branches of bayberry. To-day on the center table was a big bowl of golden roses sent to Mrs. Burton by an admirer of her work who but recently had learned of her return to the United States. There was a basket of brightly colored wool, the property of Mrs. Graham, who rashly had promised to knit each member of the Camp Fire a new sweater before the winter was over. On a smaller table was Sally’s own basket of silk. Notwithstanding the amusement of the other girls, she had begun to piece together an old-fashioned octagonal quilt, following a pattern of half a century before. Indeed, there were many feminine evidences about the room, some of them too subtle to be recognized immediately. Satisfied with her scrutiny, Sally seated herself in a large chair before the fire. Breakfast had been over for an hour or more and the big cabin was almost empty. Miss Patricia Lord was outdoors giving orders to the man who came in the mornings and afternoons to look after the furnace and do whatever work it was impossible for the girls to accomplish. Mrs. Burton was in her own room writing letters or resting. Mrs. Graham, Bettina and Marguerite Arnot had driven over to Saranac, several miles away, to do some important shopping. The other girls were studying in one of the smaller cabins. It was one of the rules for the winter that each member of the Sunrise Camp Fire club should devote three hours a day to some kind of fairly serious study save on holidays. Sally personally felt that she should follow their righteous example and yet at the present moment could scarcely make up her mind to be so virtuous. Slipping a box from her pocket, she placed a chocolate between her small white teeth. The box had come through the mail the other day with a note from Dan Webster, her old childhood friend. In Paris he had suggested that she should come home before her other friends. He now expressed himself as pleased at her return. The letter struck Sally as not so enthusiastic as she had the right to expect. Dan Webster always had been her especial friend since they were children. However, he was busy, having recently taken full charge of his father’s farm in New Hampshire, so Sally presumed he was too absorbed to give much thought to her. Hearing a sound outside in the hall, she got up and went to the open door. The hall was nearly half the size of the living-room with a second large fireplace. Mary Gilchrist had just come in from the outdoors. “Why, Gill, I thought you were out for an early morning walk! I heard Bettina say we were not to expect you at breakfast as you had made yourself a cup of coffee and some toast and would not return until we had finished. How white you look! Are you worrying over what almost happened yesterday? Gill, it bores me so to have people worry over the tragedies or the misfortunes that do not occur. Alice says that is because I have a practical and unemotional nature. Perhaps that is true, I do not know; it only seems to me a waste of time and energy. Elce was not hurt yesterday, not seriously. She slept perfectly and says her arm is not painful. Yet you look as if you were seriously ill.” Mary Gilchrist, who was sometimes called Gill and sometimes Mary by the other Camp Fire girls, smiled at Sally’s matter-of-fact manner. “You are a comfortable person, Sally, and usually I agree with what you have just said and try to follow your illustrious example. Only at present I feel as if I ought to do some kind of penance for my fault. I came to have a quiet talk with Mrs. Burton, and to ask her if she feels I have forfeited my right to be a member of her Camp Fire group.” Smiling, Sally shook her head. “Oh, you need not trouble over any criticism from Tante! Only on the most unexpected occasions is she ever stern and I am sure she will appreciate that you were sufficiently frightened not to be so reckless a second time. By the way, I must tell you something amusing in order to cheer you. “Early this morning as I was coming to breakfast I heard some one at the front door. Opening it I discovered the youth you and Bettina rescued yesterday. He was wearing a bright scarlet tam-o-shanter and a velvet coat and had a crimson scarf about his neck, and really looked rather handsome. I met him at dinner yesterday evening, but he was not in the least concerned in speaking to me and made no pretence of recognizing me. At once he demanded Mrs. Graham. When Aunt Betty came out into the hall he thrust a leather case into her hands and asked her to read his collection of unpublished poems. “Aunt Betty was of course very sweet and gracious about it, but I heard her moaning over the fact afterwards that actually there are fifty poems. Bettina counted. She and Tante were laughing over the fact after breakfast, since Aunt Betty insists she detests poetry and has scarcely read a line of it in years. However, the poet appeared to think she would be delighted with the opportunity!” Mary Gilchrist frowned. “Oh, I wish the poet and his poetry might vanish together. In fact, if I knew where Mrs. Graham had placed the masterpieces I should like to light a blaze with them. It is absurd of me, Sally, but I took a dislike to the youth and afterwards my own behavior made me dislike him the more, as though he were partly responsible. But do go for a walk, Sally, you love the indoors as much as I do the open country. It is a wonderful morning and will do you lots of good.” Half an hour later, slightly against her will, as she preferred the open fire and her sewing, Sally Ashton and the little Lancashire girl started for a walk together. Mrs. Burton had sent word that Chitty was in need of amusement and Sally had volunteered her services. Now like children they danced through the pine woods behind the camp, sometimes walking sedately, at others running a few steps, frightening the squirrels and chipmunks, who came out and seated themselves on the upper branches of the trees to chatter and scold. “You do not appear in the least uncomfortable from your injury yesterday,” Sally remarked, after protesting that they walk more quietly. “Nevertheless, suppose we sit down and rest for a few moments. I am not a gypsy, although I remember you once said that you would like to be one.” The younger girl, who was a daughter of an English miner, sat down on a bed of pine needles facing Sally, who preferred the trunk of a riven tree. “Yes, I used to talk of wishing to be a gypsy, but that was before I went to Ireland with my father and we attempted to live like gypsies. Then we used to go about through the villages, where I had to sing in the streets for pennies in the wind and rain and cold. Sometimes we slept indoors but more often in stables and lofts, until I was often too weary to sing. Then my father grew tired of the wandering life and wished to return to the army. Now I think what I wished was to live in a forest like this and always to be happy and free.” Sally’s brown eyes were slightly puzzled. The little girl’s nature was an enigma to her, as it was to most persons. Freedom seemed Chitty’s one dream, and yet she could scarcely have known what the great word signified even for her own small, individual life. “Suppose you sing for me if you feel well enough, Chitty. I have not heard you for a long time, you only sing when you are out of doors unless some one urges you. I am sleepy, so you can feel as if you were almost entirely alone.” Sally lifted up her head to watch a gleam of golden sunlight slant through the exquisite cool darkness of the pine branches and to see the long, delicate fingers of the pines tremble in the light winds. Then suddenly her eyes dropped toward her lap. If she were not musical, if she were not emotional, if she cared little for the outdoors and more for the sheltered places and life’s serenities, yet the little Lancashire girl’s gift set even her pulses stirring. Scarcely a proper definition to call the variety of sounds which Chitty poured forth with the ease and unconsciousness of a mocking-bird, singing. There were trills, gay and high and poignant, then a low note like a sob, then light ripples like wind blowing over the water, then bold, straightforward whistles, or the plaintive notes of a wood dove. Never had the effect been more magical to Sally’s ears. Then suddenly, without being aware of any particular reason, she turned her eyes and glanced in another direction. Seated not many yards away and directly facing her was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. The man was so nearly the color of the bark of the tree that he might have been carved out of wood. His hair and skin were a coppery brown, he had a short beard of the same shade and eyes that were only slightly more brown. He did not look very old, although his clothes were old and shabby. He wore a leather coat and knee breeches and was without a hat. Listening with absolute intensity to Chitty’s music, he seemed scarcely aware of their existence. When she ceased, he got up and Sally saw that he apparently wished to speak to them, and yet could not make up his mind to alarm them. As a matter of fact, Sally was not in the least frightened. |
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