“I’d advise you girls to hurry up with those squaw dresses,” hinted Tom Merriam darkly, as he fled through the sitting-room on his way back from Scout-practice.

Winnie looked up. She and Helen and Louise were sitting in a row on the window-seat, sewing for dear life on their ceremonial gowns.

“We are hurrying all we can,” she smiled. “These have to be done by to-night anyway.”

“They are, nearly,” chimed in Louise, shaking out her garment and observing its fringes with satisfaction. “What’s he talking about, Win?”

“Tommy! Tom! Come back and tell us!” called his sister.

“Can’t!” shouted Tom down the stairs. “You’ll find out in time—you’re going to need ’em, that’s all!”

“What on earth do you suppose he means?” wondered Helen, as the last glimpse of Tom’s khaki-clad form vanished up the stairs.

Winnie laughed as she finished off a seam.

“I don’t believe it meant anything,” she said. “Tom’s always trying to get up excitements.”

“I think it means something!” said Louise, beginning to take out bastings. She was the best seamstress of the three, and consequently was done first. “Here, Helen, let me finish that sleeve for you while you do the other one.”

She took up the sleeve, and jumped up and began to dance with the sleeve for a partner.

Something’sgoin’tohappen,honey,
Happen,honey,happenmightysoon!

“Oh, thank you!” said Helen gratefully, referring not to the song and dance, but to the aid. She hated sewing, and nothing but the Camp Fire requirements would ever have made her persevere till her gown was done. Winnie did not mind sewing one way or the other, and by a queer contradiction harum-scarum Louise loved it.

The girls worked on, and discussed on. Winnie was sure Tom meant nothing, and the others were just as sure that he had some reason for saying what he had.

That night the girls were to hold their first Council Fire. That was why they were hurrying so to finish their dresses.

When it came Winnie’s turn to answer the roll-call, she rose, slim and graceful in her khaki dress, before her turn was reached.

“Opeechee, Guardian of the Fire, may I speak before my turn comes to answer to my name?” she asked.

“Speak,” said Mrs. Bryan.

“Opeechee, I do not want to change my name. May I not be known in the Camp Fire as Winona? The name is one that an Indian gave one of my own people many circles of moons ago, and it is mine by inheritance.”

“Will you tell the Camp Fire about it?” asked Mrs. Bryan.

So Winnie told the Camp Fire the story her mother had told her, of the weary Indian woman her grandmother had helped, and whose papoose had been called “Winona,” “Flashing Ray of Light.”

“Could anything be better than to be a ray of light in dark places?” asked Winona. “I like the meaning of my name, and if the Camp Fire will let me keep it I promise to be a brightness wherever I can, always, that will light the dark places for people who need it.”

“What do you say, Daughters of the Camp Fire?” asked Mrs. Bryan when Winona was done.

“If we all have different Camp Fire names, won’t it seem strange for Winona to have the same name straight through?” objected Marie. “It is a beautiful name with a beautiful meaning, if it weren’t that it is her every-day name.”

“Nobody ever calls me anything but Winnie,” said Winona.

“Why not use the translation?” suggested Helen. “‘Ray of Light’ is pretty. And then Winnie could keep the meaning.”

“You have spoken well!” said Mrs. Bryan. “What do you say to that, Daughters of the Camp Fire?”

“Good!” from all the girls.

“Kolah, Ray of Light!” spoke Mrs. Bryan.

Then she went on with the business of the evening.

“Two of our Camp Fire Girls are to become Wood-gatherers to-night. Will they rise?”

Winona and Marie had qualified, and they stood up.

“Ray of Light,” Mrs. Bryan went on, “will you tell us how you chose your name?”

“‘Flashing Ray of Light’ is the name my fathers gave me,” clearly spoke Winona, “and I have told the Camp Fire the reason of its choosing. But I keep it because I intend to carry out its meaning. I have tried to earn my right to it by being bright, and helping all I could, no matter how dark the days were, nor how much nicer it would have been to be cross. As my symbol I have chosen the firefly, because it lights dark places.”

“Flashing Ray of Light brings brightness to our Camp Fire,” said the Guardian. “We welcome you to your place in our Camp Fire Circle.”

She gave Winona her pretty silver ring with its raying fagots, and repeating the formula which went with it.

When the girls had welcomed her rank and sung her a cheer, Winona sat down, she hoped, for the last time.

“How does it feel?” whispered Louise, who sat next her. “I wish I’d collected my requirements as quickly.”

“It feels partly awfully proud and partly awfully relieved,” Winona whispered back. “And I feel as if I oughtn’t to have picked out such awfully easy honors to take. Anybody could make a shirtwaist and know about their ancestors and trim a hat——”

“No, they couldn’t!” contradicted Louise, who admired Winona very much. “You just happen to be cleverer than the rest of us, that’s all.”

“I’m not!” said Winona as vehemently as it could be said in a whisper. “Marie’s getting her Wood-gatherer’s ring to-night, too.”

Mrs. Bryan’s voice rose again in the same formula.

“Shawondassee, tell us how you chose your name.”

“Shawondassee means ‘South Wind,’” answered Marie’s steady voice. “I chose the name because the South Wind coaxes instead of scolding, and I thought it was a good name to remind me to do the same thing. As my symbol I have chosen the willow shoots, because they come up year after year, no matter how often they are cut down, and I wish to have their perseverance.”

“Perseverance and cheerfulness!” whispered Louise. “Who would have thought Marie needed either of them?”

“You can’t tell much about Marie, because you never can get to her to talk about herself,” answered Winona. “But she certainly is one of the hardest workers in the class at school.”

At this point the girls had to stop talking, to join in the Wood-gatherer’s verses for Marie.

Nearly all Marie’s required honors were Patriotism, for she was the student of the crowd.

“It fairly makes me shiver to think how much that girl knows,” whispered Louise. “My honors are going to be plain home-craft—making pies and chaperoning ice-chests and massaging floors, and so forth.”

“Will your mother let you?” asked Winona; for Mrs. Lane kept two maids, having the money to do it, and a big family.

“Let me!” exploded Louise. “She’ll weep tears of joy if there’s any prospect of my getting thinner!”

Just as Louise spoke there fell one of those uncanny silences which have a way of occurring at the worst possible times. Louise’s statement pealed cheerfully through the room, and poor Louise, blushing scarlet, tried to make herself very small—a hard matter.

The girls could not help laughing, but Mrs. Bryan had mercy on her embarrassment, and went on with the awarding of the honor beads each girl had won since the last meeting. Winona’s were rather various—a few from each class. Helen’s were nearly all hand-craft—stencilling and clay-modelling. She had brought along a bureau-scarf she had done, to show, and a beautiful little bowl she had modelled and painted and fired. Louise had only three beads so far, one for identifying birds, one for preserving, and one for making her ceremonial dress.

Edith Hillis, to everybody’s surprise, was given an honor for folk-dancing, and proceeded, when she was asked, to get up and demonstrate. This held up the regular course of the meeting for quite a little while, because when she showed them the Highland Fling all the girls wanted to learn it. So for at least a half-hour they practised it, till the floor over Mr. Bryan’s head, in his study beneath, must have seemed to be coming down.

After they had all tired themselves thoroughly they sang for awhile. About midway of the second song Mrs. Bryan evidently remembered something, for she gave a start as if she were going to speak. As soon as they had finished she raised her hand for silence, and said:

“I have a message for Camp Karonya. It should be delivered at the business meeting, I suppose, but—it won’t keep till then. The Boy Scouts, Camp No. Six, of this town, invite the Camp Fire Girls to a dance given by them in the school-house assembly-room next Wednesday night.”

“Oh, how perfectly lovely!” cried Edith. “Of course we’ll go!”

A confused noise of voices broke out, all speaking at once. You could catch an occasional word—“blue messaline,” “white organdy,” “orchestra,” “how perfectly dandy!”—but for the most part it was just a noise.

Mrs. Bryan waited placidly till it had quieted down.

“What is your pleasure in this matter, Daughters of the Camp Fire?” she asked then.

“Oh, we’ll go!” cried everybody at once.

“Then you’d better instruct the Secretary to write them to that effect,” suggested Mrs. Bryan gravely, for the tumult seemed inclined to break out again.

Winona jumped up and put it in the form of a motion that the Secretary should reply, and actually induced the girls to second and ratify it.

“I’ll write the acceptance right away!” declared Helen with enthusiasm.

She went into the next room, got paper and ink, came back, sat down in the middle of a ring of interested suggesters, and wrote a very pleased acceptance.

Winona, robbed of her usual confidante, turned to the girl on her other side, to talk clothes.

“I’m going to wear my blue organdy, with the Dresden sash and hair-ribbons,” she said without looking to see to whom she was talking.

“Are you?” said the other girl, hesitating a little.

Winona looked at her, at the sound of her voice. She had thought she was speaking to Louise. But Louise was on the other side of the room, and the girl next her was Adelaide Hughes, one of the two girls Mrs. Bryan had brought into their Camp Fire.

It was two months now since Winona and Adelaide had begun to meet each other weekly at the Camp Fire good times and Ceremonials, but when you have all the bosom friends you want it is hard to see such a very great deal of other people. Winona realized now that she had scarcely exchanged two consecutive sentences with Adelaide all the time she had known her.

Adelaide was a thin, tired-looking girl of about thirteen, with big blue eyes and a sensitive mouth, and hair that had curious yellow and brown lights. She did not join very heartily, ever, in the frolics, but she seemed to enjoy everything with a sort of shy, watching intensity.

“And what are you going to wear?” Winona asked, more out of friendliness than curiosity.

Adelaide colored.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “I—a white dress, I think.”

“Voile?” asked Winona.

Adelaide shook her head.

“No, lawn—if I come. But maybe I won’t be there.”

“Why, what a shame!” said Winona with the bright friendliness that was a part of her. “Of course you must be there. Helen accepted for all of us.”

“I know, but—but maybe I can’t come,” repeated Adelaide.

“Of course you can!” insisted Winona.

Adelaide’s eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head.

Winona slipped one arm around her. The two girls were sitting a little apart from the rest by now, in a dusky corner.

“There’s some reason why you think you can’t, some horrid reason,” she coaxed. “Now, just tell Winona what it is.” She spoke as if she were petting her own younger sister, though Adelaide was only a year younger than she was.

Adelaide’s eyes overflowed, and she felt gropingly for her handkerchief, to dry her eyes.

“Here’s one,” whispered Winona, slipping her own into Adelaide’s hand. “Now, tell me, dear. It isn’t very bad, is it? Maybe I could help.”

“You can’t!” said Adelaide fiercely, “and I won’t tell you a thing unless you promise not to.”

“All right,” said Winona cheerfully, “I promise.”

“I—I haven’t any party dress, and father can’t afford to get me one,” choked Adelaide, “and all I have is an old white lawn I wear afternoons, and it’s horrid. And—and, Winona Merriam, if you offer to loan me a dress I’ll never speak to you again!”

“I wasn’t going to,” comforted Winona, stroking poor sobbing Adelaide’s shoulder, while her own quick, friendly mind cast about for a way out.

For Adelaide must come to the dance, and evidently she wouldn’t borrow anything from anybody.

“Not borrow—how queer!” said Winona, voicing her thought. “Why, I don’t know any of the girls I wouldn’t borrow from, if I needed to, or they from me. Don’t you ever borrow anything, Adelaide—except trouble?”

“No, I don’t,” said Adelaide chokily but proudly. “It’s—it’s different when you have to!”

“I don’t see why!” said sunny, friendly-hearted Winona, who always took it for granted that she liked people, and of course that they would like her! She had never known what it was to be rich, but never either what it was to be painfully poor. “Well, let’s think of some other way. I suppose you haven’t time to earn the money for a dress for this party. Opeechee was telling us last week that we ought to try to earn so much money apiece, and that there were lots of ways for doing it.”

“No, there wouldn’t be time,” answered Adelaide mournfully; but she stopped crying and began to look interested.