Farmers stopped to watch them, often to wave hat or handkerchief as they went flying past. To these salutations the girls took delight in replying, greatly to the disgust and chagrin of Jim Barlow.

"Why, you don't even know them!" he said to Dorothy in a sternly reproving tone, when she chided him gently about a reproof he had just administered to Molly, who had become quite enthusiastic in her efforts to attract the attention of a young farmer lad who was plowing in a nearby field.

"Neither do they know us," the girl responded. "Besides, Molly is her own mistress, and you have no right to tell her she may or may not do as she pleases."

"But I can express my opinion on the subject," growled Jim. "This is a free country."

"Ugh! He's a regular bear to-day, girls," said Aurora. "Let's leave him alone until he can be civil."

Which made Jim grate his teeth in rage. He gradually cooled off, however, when he found that no one was paying any attention to him, and by the middle of the afternoon was laughing and chatting as gayly as ever.

Villages appeared before their gaze every few miles, only to vanish behind them as they went down the main street, the hoarse-voiced horn sending out its warning to pedestrians. Their speed was clearly within the limits of what was required by law, however, so they experienced no trouble from country constables, as is often the case when automobile parties go on tour.

Throughout the afternoon the big auto kept up its steady gait, reeling off mile after mile, until the sun had disappeared below the horizon. Just when dusk was ready to envelop the land they descried in the distance a good-sized town, and beyond it some miles the eastern spur of the South Mountains.

"There, children, is where we will be camping if all goes well to-morrow," said Aunt Betty.

"Sounds mighty good to me," said Gerald. "Here, Ephy, take hold of this steering wheel awhile. I'm going to stretch myself and gaze out over the country a bit."

Ephraim, delighted at the confidence reposed in him by the boy, clambered into the front seat, while Gerald took one of the small seats in the rear compartment, facing Jim.

Sometime later Ephraim guided the car into the main street of the village, and, at Aunt Betty's suggestion stopped before what seemed to be a hotel of the better class. Upon investigation accommodations were found to be so tempting, the party decided to spend the night. Gerald registered for the crowd, while Ephraim, with a stable boy belonging at the hotel, took the Ajax around to the rear where shelter might be had from the elements.

Supper was served at seven-thirty in a large and commodious dining-room, and the campers sustained their reputations for ravenous eaters so well that the proprietor secretly wrung his hands in despair. Had these city folks come to eat him out of house and home? he wondered.

He was glad when the meal was over, and the visitors had departed down the street in search of amusement before turning in.

This amusement was found at the town hall, where a cheap theatrical company was offering the time-worn favorite, "Lady Audley's Secret." Even Aunt Betty enjoyed the old play which she had not seen for years, though she declared that the scene at the well gave her a fit of the "creeps."

The company was a very mediocre one—in fact, an organization which made its living off of small town audiences, where the standard set is not so high, and a little less for the money does not seem to matter.

To bed at eleven and up at six was the story of the night, as recorded by the master of ceremonies, James Barlow, who was the first to awaken in the morning, and who aroused Ephraim and told him to wake the others.

The proprietor of the hotel, evidently fearing a repetition of the night before, was careful to put on the table only such food as he felt his guests should have, and when a second portion was asked for his solitary waiter was instructed to say that the concern was out of that particular dish.

While Jim and Molly were hardly satisfied at being limited to but one batch of pan-cakes each, they were too eager to be on their way to register a protest.

As soon as the sun had risen the South Mountains loomed up distinctly to the west, the purple haze which had enveloped them the night before being gone. Instead, the sun seemed to glint off the peaks like burnished gold. However, as Old Sol rose higher, this effect was gradually dissipated, and after a two hours' ride, during which the progress was very slow on account of the condition of the roads, the party found themselves in the foothills, with the mountains looming close at hand.

A pretty sight lay before their eyes a short time later, when Gerald stopped the machine half way up the side of one of the mountains, and they gazed out over the valley, through which a silvery stream of water flowed merrily toward the Potomac. Then, their eyes thoroughly satiated, they began to look for a suitable place in which to make their camp.

"Seems to me there's a desirable spot over there on that plateau," said Dorothy. "There are lots of fine shade trees, and we would have an excellent view of the valley. And then, if I am not mistaken, that path leading down the mountainside goes to yonder village, and it is just as well to be in close proximity to what supplies we may need."

"That village is farther away than you think," said Jim.

"Well, we'll ride over and look at the plateau, anyway," said Gerald.

"Getting there is the next thing," said Molly.

The way did appear difficult. The road they were on wound up and around the mountain, and it was only after a most diligent search that Gerald and Jim discovered another road leading off in another direction and finally crossing the plateau.

They reached their destination some time later, and found the prospective camp-site even more satisfactory than they had expected. A vote of the party was taken, and it was unanimously decided to stay on this spot.

"It will soon be noon," said Aunt Betty, at once assuming charge of arrangements. "So let's unload the things while the boys are fixing the tents. If we have good luck we shall have our lunch in good Camp Blank."

"Oh, not Blank," said Aurora, with becoming modesty. "Why not call it Camp Calvert?"

"I think Camp Blank sounds very nice," Aunt Betty made reply.

"And I," said Dorothy. "Let's call it Camp Blank."

"No," said Gerald; "the Blanks have nothing to do with it. This is Dorothy's party. It shall be called Camp Calvert."

"I protest," said Dorothy. "It's no more my party than yours, Gerald Blank, even if it is given in honor of my home-coming."

"It shall be Camp Calvert," Gerald persisted.

"Well, we'll submit it to arbitration. Jim, you have taken no part in the controversy. Shall we name it Camp Blank or Camp Calvert?"

"Neither," said Jim.

"What!" cried Dorothy and Gerald in a breath.

"Oh, come now, Jim!" This from Aunt Betty.

"No," said Jim, "we'll call it neither. You've left the matter to me, so we'll call it Camp Breckenridge after Molly, but we'll make it Camp 'Breck' for short."

"No, no," said Molly. "I shan't permit it."

But Molly's protests were quickly overridden, and with the discussion at an end, the members of the party went about the various tasks they had set themselves to do.

Getting a hand-ax from the tool box, Gerald took Jim and marched off into the woods, while Ephraim was delegated to stay behind and "tote" things for the ladies.

First, an imaginary plan was drawn of the camp—just where the tents would go; where the camp-fire should be to get the best draught; which direction the breeze was coming from, so the tent flaps might be left back at night for the comfort of the sleepers; and the many other little details which a woman and several girls will always think of.

By the time Gerald and Jim returned, bearing several tent poles and an armful of stakes, all matters had been definitely settled. The first tent was pitched between two huge oak trees, which threw their shade for yards around. The other, which was to house the boys and Ephraim, was placed a short distance to the rear in a clump of smaller trees, but within a few steps of the rear of the ladies' quarters.

Once the tents were up, Ephraim was instructed to kindle a fire, which he did very quickly, his camping experience having been of a wide and varied nature.

While the fire was blazing merrily as if to welcome the campers to the newly-organized Camp Breck, the mistress of Bellvieu bustled about in a nimble fashion for one of her years, directing the preparation of the meal.

Molly was set peeling potatoes, while Dorothy and Aurora spread the table cloth in a level spot on the soft grass, and began to distribute the tin plates, steel knives and forks and other utensils which had been purchased especially for the camp.

Soon affairs were moving merrily, and the party sat down to lunch shortly after one, half-famished but happy, little dreaming of the thrilling adventure which was to befall them ere another day had passed.



CHAPTER VI

A CRY IN THE NIGHT

In the late afternoon, after the girls and Aunt Betty had taken their naps, Gerald suggested a jaunt down the mountainside toward the valley. The suggestion was eagerly accepted by Aurora, Dorothy, Molly and Jim. Aunt Betty agreed that she would stay with Ephraim to look after the camp, being unable to do the climbing which would be necessary on the return.

No Alpine stocks had been brought, but Gerald and Jim again sallied forth with the hand-ax, the result being that in a short while the entire party was equipped with walking sticks.

Telling Aunt Betty good-by, and warning Ephraim not to stray away from his mistress during their absence, they soon were off down the pathway leading toward the village in the valley.

"I'll tell you, girls, there's some class to this outing," said Gerald, who, with Dorothy, led the way.

Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind.

"This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen," said Molly. "The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and ever."

"Come—don't get poetical, Molly," warned Jim. "This is a very modern gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated."

"Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow, and you know it!"

"Sounded like blank verse to me," and Jim grinned.

"You mustn't blame me for being enthused over such sights as these. If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly deficient in your make-up."

"That's right, Molly; rub it in," Dorothy said, over her shoulder. "Jim is entirely too practical—too prosaic—for this old world of ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other amusements, and poetry is naturally included."

"Hopelessly overruled," murmured Jim. "So sorry I spoke. Go ahead, Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and—and—"

"Pills?" suggested Aurora.

"Well, anything you wish; I'm no poet."

"You're no poet, and we all know it," hummed Aurora.

"I dare you girls to go as far as the village!" cried Dorothy.

"How about the boys?" Gerald wanted to know.

"They are included in the dare, of course."

"Well, I'll have to take the dare," said Molly. "That village is too far for me to-day."

"Why, it's only a short way down the valley," Dorothy protested.

"It's several miles, at least," said Jim.

"Oh, come!"

"Why, yes; distances are very deceptive in this part of the country."

Dorothy could not be convinced, so the others decided to keep on until the girl realized that she had misjudged the distance, and asked to turn back.

They did not know Dorothy Calvert.

The path led down the mountainside and into a broad road which followed the bank of a stream. Somehow, when this point was reached, the village seemed no nearer.

Dorothy uttered no protest, however. But the others exchanged glances, as if to say:

"Well, I wonder will she ever get enough?"

On they went till at last, at a great bend in the road, where lay a fallen log, Molly stopped for a rest.

"You folks can go on," said she, seating herself on the fallen tree. "I'll wait here and go back with you."

"And I," said Aurora, dropping down beside her.

"Guess those are my sentiments, too," drawled Jim, as he languidly sat down beside the girls.

"Well," said Gerald, "after our journey this morning, and the work I did in camp, I don't believe I want any village in mine, either."

And he, too, sat down.

Dorothy stood gazing at her friends, an amused expression on her face.

"I suppose if the majority vote is to be listened to, I lose," she said. "I thought you all were mountain climbers, and great believers in exercise on a large scale. But I see I was mistaken. I yield to the rule of the majority; we will not go to the village to-day."

Dorothy sat down. As she did so, the others burst into a roar of laughter.

"Well, I don't see anything so funny," she said. "But perhaps that is because I am lacking a sense of humor."

"No, it's not that," said Gerald. "We are laughing to see how stubbornly you give up a little whim. Nobody wanted to go to the village but you, yet you insisted that everyone go."

"Oh, I didn't mean that like you took it, at all, Gerald," protested the girl, a slight flush creeping over her face.

"We felt that, hence, knowing it could give you no real pleasure to go farther, and tire yourself and ourselves completely out, so that we would have to hire a conveyance to get back to camp, we decided to rebel, and stay here."

"I imagine the fishing is good in this neighborhood," said Molly, who was looking out over the stream where the water ran gently between the rocks. It was as clear as glass, and the fish could be seen swimming about.

"They catch a great many trout in these mountains, I've heard," said Jim. "Say we get some poles and try our luck before we go back, eh, Gerald?"

"Surely," responded the person addressed. "I brought plenty of fishing tackle in the big chest on the back of the machine. I have also four poles in sections, each fitted with a fine reel and silk line. I wouldn't come on a camping trip like this without having a try at the fish, I assure you."

When the party had rested sufficiently, the climb back to camp was begun, and even Dorothy was thankful that they had not gone to the village, realizing the truth of Gerald's words, that they would have needed a conveyance to get them back to their starting point.

It was late afternoon when they reached the camp, to find that Aunt Betty and Ephraim had supper on the fire. And a fine supper it was, too—fine for camp life. When it was spread on the ground before them a short time later, they devoured it ravenously, which pleased Aunt Betty immensely, for she loved to see young folks eat.

The meal over and the things cleared away, the young folks and Aunt Betty gathered before the ladies' tent where a fine view of the valley could be obtained, and for some little time were silent, as the wonderful glories of Mother Nature unfolded themselves. Before they realized it, almost, the day was gone—their first day in camp—and night was upon them. A gray light, mingling with the faint afterglow of twilight, showed clearly the outlines of the distant mountains. The stars blinked down from their heavenly dome and the air was cool and comfortable, thanks to the altitude. To the silent watchers it seemed that no skies were ever so deep and clear as those which overspread Camp Breck.

"It would seem," said Aunt Betty, breaking a long silence, "that in making the stars, nature was bent on atoning in the firmament for a lack of beauty and brilliancy on the earth."

"How like the Gates of Wonderland I read about when a wee child are these hills on such a night," said Dorothy reverently.

"Stop!" warned Molly. "If you don't, Jim will soon be chiding you for becoming poetic."

"No; this is different, somehow," said the boy. "It has gotten into my blood. I feel much as Dorothy does—a sensation I've never experienced before, though I've traveled through the Catskills till I know them like a book. Even the Rockies did not appeal to me in this way."

"It is not the environment, but the viewpoint, Jim," Aunt Betty said. "The nights in the Catskills are just as beautiful as here; it happens that you have never thought of the wonders of nature in quite the same way in which you have had them brought home to you to-night. I daresay you will never spend another night in any mountains, however, without thinking of the transcendent beauty of it all."

"There is something in the air that makes me feel like singing," said Gerald.

"Then by all means indulge yourself," Dorothy advised.

"Let's form a quartette," said Molly. "I can sing a fair alto."

"And I can't sing anything—can't even carry an air," Aurora put in in a regretful voice. "But Gerald has a fine tenor voice, and perhaps Dorothy can take the soprano and Jim the bass."

In this way it was arranged, Dorothy being appointed leader.

"First of all, what shall we sing?" she wanted to know.

"Oh, any old thing," said Jim.

"No; not any old thing. It must be something with which we are all familiar."

"Well, let's make it a medley of old Southern songs," suggested Gerald.

"An excellent idea," said Aunt Betty, while Ephraim was so delighted at the suggestion that he clapped his hands in the wildest enthusiasm.

So Dorothy, carrying the air, started off into "The Old Folks At Home."

Never, thought Aunt Betty, had the old tune sounded so beautiful, as, with those clear young voices ringing out on the still air of the summer's night, and when the last words,

Way down upon the Suwanee River, Far from the old folks at home,

had died away, she was ready and eager for more. "Old Black Joe," followed, then "Dixie," and finally "Home, Sweet Home," that classic whose luster time never has or never will dim, and which brought the tears to her eyes as it brought back recollections of childhood days.

Then, as if to mingle gayety with sadness, Ephraim was induced to execute a few of his choicest steps on a hard, bare spot of ground under one of the big oak trees, while Jim and Gerald whistled "Turkey in the Straw," and kept time with their hands. The old negro's agility was surprising, his legs and feet being as nimble, apparently, as when, years before as a young colored lad, he had gone through practically the same performance for Aunt Betty, then in the flower of her young womanhood.

After this the party sought the tents, where, on blankets spread on the ground, covered by sheets, and with rough pillows under their heads, each member of the party sought repose.

In one end of the tent occupied by Gerald and Jim slept old Ephraim, the watch-dog of the camp, who prided himself that no suspicious sound, however slight, could escape his keen ears in the night time.

The slumber of the party was undisturbed during the early hours of the night, as, with the tent flaps thrown back, to allow the clear passage of the cool breeze off the valley, the occupants of both tents slept soundly.

Sometime after midnight, however, the slumber of all was broken by a most startling incident. It was a cry of distress coming out of the night from farther down the mountainside—a cry so appealing in its pathos that Ephraim was on his feet, listening with open mouth, before the echoes had died away. Then, as he roused Gerald and Jim, the cry came again, reverberating over the mountain in trembling, piteous tones:

"Oh, help me! Help me! Won't someone please help me? Oh, oh-h-h-h!"

The last exclamation, drawn out in a mournful wail sent a thrill of pity through the hearts of the old negro and the boys.

Dorothy heard the second cry, and she, too, felt the appeal of the voice, as she awakened the other inmates of the tent.

The cry came again at short intervals.

"What can it be?" someone asked.

"Sounds to me like someone's lost their way," said Jim, as he and Gerald stood listening outside their tent.

"Oh, Lordy! Maybe it's er ghost!" wailed Ephraim, whose superstitious fears the passing years had failed to dislodge. "Dat suah sound tuh me like de cry ob er lost soul."

"Nonsense!" cried Gerald. "There's no such thing as a lost soul. And stop that sort of talk, Ephy. No matter what you think, there's no use scaring the women."

"What are you boys going to do?" asked Dorothy, peeking out from behind the flap of her tent.

"There's only one thing to do, when a voice appeals to you like that—investigate," said Jim.

"Yes; we must find out who it is," Gerald readily agreed.

"But you boys mustn't venture down the mountainside alone," said Aurora. "No telling what will happen to you. No, no; you stay here and answer the voice. Then maybe the person will be able to find his way to the camp."

"I'm not so sure we want him in camp," said Aunt Betty, grimly.

"Well, the least we can do is meet him half way," was Jim's final decision.

Dorothy, who knew the boy, felt that further argument would be useless, particularly as Gerald seemed to agree with everything Jim said.

"But you have no revolvers," protested Aurora. "It is nothing short of suicide to venture off into the darkness unarmed."

"That's right; we didn't think to bring any fire-arms with us," Gerald said, turning to Jim. "But we'd have a hard time finding anything to shoot in the dark, so I reckon we may as well get a couple of stout clubs and see who that fellow is."

Two poles that had been found too short for the purpose of erecting the tents lay near at hand, and searching these out, the boys bade Ephraim not to leave the women under any circumstances and started down the side of the mountain in the direction from whence the cries had come.

"Help, help!" came the voice again, like a person in mortal terror.

"Hello, hello!" Jim responded, in his deep bass voice which went echoing and re-echoing down the valley. "Where are you?"

"Here!" came the quick response. "Come to me! Hurry! Hurry!"

"Have patience and keep calling; we're moving in your direction. We'll find you," replied Jim in an encouraging tone.

At short intervals the voice came floating up to them, getting louder and louder, until it seemed but a few yards away. The boys realized, however, that voices carry a great distance on a clear night, hence knew that they had not yet achieved the object of their search.

Grasping their clubs tightly, they worked their way through the underbrush. The trees were scattered in places, letting a few beams of moonlight seep through, though the dark shadows were deceptive and no objects could be distinguished beyond their bare outlines.

Soon, however, they were in close proximity to the voice, which appeared to be that of a young boy. Then, suddenly, as Jim called out again in an encouraging tone to know whom they were addressing, a form came staggering toward him out of the shadows, and someone grabbed him in frenzied madness, while great heart-rending sobs shook his frame.

Startled at first, Jim realized that this was caused by fright, so instead of casting the person away as his instinct seemed to bid him, he threw his arms about the trembling form and tried to distinguish in the darkness who and what he was.

What he felt caused a great feeling of pity to surge over him; for his hands encountered the slight form of a young lad, not more than twelve years old. Jim was astonished, and readily perceived why one so young should be racked with terror at being alone on the mountainside in the dead of night.

"There, there," he said; "don't cry. It's all right. You're with friends." He turned to Gerald: "It's nothing but a boy. Scared most to death, I suppose."

"What, a boy, and alone on the mountain at this hour?"

"Strange, but true."

"I don't understand it."

"Neither do I. I suppose he's lost, or has run away from home. In either case, the best we can do is to get to camp with him as quickly as possible."

Jim tried to draw the lad out—to get him to tell something of himself, but his only answer was more sobs, as the lad still quivered from fright.

"Well, are you alone?" Jim asked.

There was a hastily murmured:

"Yes."

"Do you want to go with us?"

"Oh, yes, yes—don't l-l-leave m-m-me alone again!"

"We'll not leave you alone. We have a camp near here and you're more than welcome."

Gerald led the way back up the mountainside, Jim, his arm supporting the little fellow at his side, following as rapidly as the rough going would permit.

It was no easy matter, getting back to camp, as they quickly discovered. As a matter of caution, of course, those at the camp would not allow any lights, so the boys were forced to pick their way through the woods with only the stars and a partly-obscured moon to guide them.

The descent had been comparatively easy, but this was almost more than human endurance could stand. Several times great rocks impeded their progress and they were forced to go around them. They paused frequently to rest on account of the young boy, who seemed all but exhausted. The frightened lad continued his sobbing at intervals, his body shaking like one with the ague. He refused to talk, however, save to respond to an occasional question in a monosyllable.

"Is that the camp, do you suppose?" Gerald inquired, suddenly, after they had climbed what seemed an interminable distance.

Jim, following the motion of his arm, saw a bright patch of light; but as he looked this resolved itself into sky. Concealing their disappointment, they continued the ascent.

At times they were almost tempted to cry out, but thoughts of the boy, and the fear that he had not been alone on the mountain, caused them to refrain.

Finally, they reached the road by which that morning they had come upon the mountain. Now, at least, they were able to get their bearings, for the mountain to the east, the first one they had ascended after leaving the foothills in the auto, loomed up sentinel-like, through the moonlight.

Forming their impressions by their distance from this mountain, the boys decided that they were nearly half a mile from camp.

"Just think of all the climb we wasted," said Jim. "We might have been at camp twenty minutes ago had we been able to keep in the right direction."

"Well, one thing is sure," Gerald responded; "we'll be able to find it now."

They set off down the road, which, being composed of sand, was plainly visible in the moonlight, in spite of the deep shadows thrown by the trees on either side.

Some moments later they made out the tents. This time there was no mistake, for, as they listened, they heard the murmur of voices. The girls and Aunt Betty were no doubt discussing their protracted absence. Probably suspecting that some harm had come to the boys they were afraid to make their presence known, and were talking in low, guarded tones.

"Camp ahoy!" cried Gerald, suddenly.

Then everyone screamed, and there was a scramble to strike a light, as they all crowded around the boys with eager questions. Ephy struck a light and by its fitful glare the girls saw the pale face of the lad Jim and Gerald had found on the mountain.

"Here's the result of our trip," said Jim, as he led his burden forward.

"In heaven's name!" cried Aunt Betty. "Who have you there, Jim Barlow?"

"Ask me something easy, Aunt Betty. We found him alone on the mountain, half scared to death. He won't talk. He's been hysterical all the way back. Perhaps after a good night's rest he will be able to tell us who he is and where he came from."

"You poor boy!" cried the sympathetic Dorothy.

Then, moved by a sudden impulse, she threw her arms about his neck and drew him to her—an action which the lad seemed in no way to resent.

The story of their adventure told, Gerald and Jim again sought their sleeping quarters, taking their newly-found friend with them.

Before they went to sleep they induced him to tell his name, which was Len Haley. When they pressed him to know how he came to be alone so far from home, he shook his head and his lip trembled. That, he said, he would tell them in the morning.

Fixing a comfortable place for him, the boys waited until he was sound asleep, before again closing their own eyes. Then, tired from the exertions of the day and night, they, too, dropped off to sleep, to the tune of old Ephraim's snores.



CHAPTER VII

UNWELCOME VISITORS

While gathered about the breakfast table—if table, it could be called—the next morning, the campers heard the boy's story. Len Haley had by this time thoroughly recovered from his fright, and he related in a timid, halting fashion how he had come to be alone on the mountain in the dead of night.

An orphan, living with his uncle, James Haley, near the little village of Armsdale in the valley, he had worked for years in a truck garden. Neither James Haley or his wife had experienced any affection for the lad, but seemed bent only upon making him carry on his young shoulders the burden of running their little farm.

Len, a willing worker, had accepted his lot as a matter of course. But when the hours grew longer, and he was forced to rise before daylight to milk the cows and feed the horses, and was not allowed to retire until the same services had been performed late at night, with hours of drudgery in the field, during the intervening time, he had rebelled, only to be soundly beaten by his uncle, and told to return to his work under the penalty of being beaten till he was black and blue.

The boy had stood this as long as he could. Then he resolved to run away. He kept this purpose to himself, however, waiting for the proper opportunity to present itself.

The previous night James Haley had gone to the village about eight o'clock. Mrs. Haley was feeling badly, and it was necessary to fill a prescription at the drug store. Why Len was not selected for this mission he could not imagine, for usually his uncle took a keen delight in rousing him out of bed at all hours of the night.

It had seemed to the boy to be an omen in his favor. James Haley apparently believed him to be asleep at the time of his departure for the village. The boy had really gone to bed, but lay there thoroughly dressed. Soon after his uncle left the farm, the boy had crept softly down the stairs in his stocking feet, then out of the house. Putting on his shoes out by the barn he had immediately struck out for the mountains, not realizing what a terrible thing it was for a boy to be alone in the woods in the night time.

When finally this realization was brought home to him, he became frightened. But he gritted his teeth, resolved not to turn back. He knew full well that the beatings he had received in the past would be as nothing compared to what the future would hold in store, if James Haley ever laid hands on him again.

He wandered on up the mountainside as the hour grew late, until, driven almost into hysterics by the dreadful lonesomeness about him, he had cried out for help, hoping, he said, to attract the attention of some people he knew lived in this vicinity.

The first response to his cries had been Jim's "Hello!" So overjoyed was Len at hearing a human voice again that he had come near fainting.

Now that the dreadful trip was a thing of the past, and the boy had an opportunity to think calmly over the matter, he feared that his cries had been heard in the valley, and it would be only the question of a few hours until his uncle would be searching the mountain.

The sympathies of the entire party, particularly those of Dorothy and Aunt Betty, were with the unfortunate boy, and what action was to be taken to keep him out of his uncle's hands was to all a pertinent question.

"Don't let them take me back there," Len begged, while they were discussing the matter. "I'd rather die—honest to goodness, I would!"

"Oh, we just can't let you go back," was Aunt Betty's rather grim resolve. "It's against all the principles of human nature to stand by and see a young boy like you abused. You shall stay with us, Len; you shall be under our protection. We'll find some way to circumvent your uncle and keep you out of his hands."

Tears came into the boy's eyes, and he flashed her a look of gratitude.

"We might take Len back to Baltimore with us and find him a position," said Dorothy.

"There is enough work at Bellvieu alone to keep him busy for many months," returned Aunt Betty. "Ephraim is getting old, and Metty is occupied with the care of the horses and cattle. Len shall be our yard boy for a while, if he desires."

Len did desire, and did not hesitate to so express himself. He would work hard for Mrs. Calvert, he said, until he was old enough to strike out for himself.

This part of the matter was soon settled to the satisfaction of all. It was then decided that Len should remain in the seclusion of one of the tents during the day, so that he would be out of sight from anyone approaching Camp Breck from either direction. Aurora had brought a bundle of reading matter, including several illustrated papers, and these were placed at Len's disposal. The boy had had several years of schooling previous to the death of his parents, and was a fair reader. Like most boys who have been restrained through one cause or another from reading all the books they desired, he was ready and anxious to devour anything that came his way.

Jim and Gerald put their heads together, and resolved to circumvent James Haley should he appear on the scene in search of Len.

"We'll lead him away from the camp," said Jim, "without telling him any deliberate untruths—send him off on a false scent. Aunt Betty is right, you know; we can't let him go back to a life like that."

"No," said Gerald; "it would be a pity. If his uncle's treatment was bad enough to make Len take to the mountains in the night time, it must have been at least a mild sort of an inquisition."

The boys congratulated themselves later on planning matters out in advance, for the forenoon was barely half gone when two horsemen rode out of the woods to the south of the camp and turned their horses in the direction of the tents.

Jim was the first to see them.

"Don't be startled, folks," he said, "and please don't turn and 'rubber,' for there are two men coming toward camp on horseback."

"Oh!" gasped Molly. "Poor Len!"

"Poor Len, nothing!" Jim returned. "I know it is hard for a girl to refrain from doing something she's been asked not to, but if you turn your head, Molly Breckenridge, or let on in any way that you've seen those horsemen, you need never call me your friend again. We must act like we haven't seen them, until they hail us. Ephraim, you sneak into the tent, without looking to the right or the left. Then hide Len under the cots or somewhere where they won't find him. Gerald and I will talk to the men when they arrive."

The girls and Aunt Betty kept their presence of mind very well, considering the fact that they were laboring under no little excitement.

Ephraim went carelessly into the tent, as Jim had bade him, where he concealed the runaway lad in a very natural manner under a heavy quilt. It mattered not that the weather was excessively warm this time of day; the old negro figured that the exigencies of the case demanded desperate measures, and as for Len, he accepted his punishment without a whimper.

By the time the men had drawn rein before the tents, Ephraim was sitting calmly in a chair, an illustrated paper in his hand, puffing complacently at his pipe.

"Good morning," greeted the larger of the two men.

"Good morning," returned Jim, pleasantly. Then he and Gerald went forward to meet them.

One of the riders, a rather pompous-looking individual, with a long, drooping mustache, dismounted and threw the reins over his horse's head.

"I'm Sheriff Dundon of this county, boys," he said. "The gentleman with me is Mr. Haley. We're searching for a boy named Len Haley—Mr. Haley's nephew, in fact. He left his home down in the valley some time in the night. We thought perhaps you'd seen him."

Jim and Gerald exchanged feigned glances of surprise, which was part of the plan they had mapped out to save Len.

"It must have been him we heard cry out in the night," said Jim.

"Yes," Gerald responded. "Too bad we didn't know it was only a boy."

"You heard someone cry out in the night, then?" the sheriff asked, while the man on the horse eyed them keenly, and flashed curious glances about the camp.

"Why, yes," Jim returned; "Old Ephraim, our darkey, woke us up in the night to hear some mournful noises which he said came from somewhere down the mountainside. We listened and heard someone crying out at intervals for help. But having no fire-arms, and not knowing whether it was a drunken man or a lunatic, we were afraid to venture very far away from camp."

"What time was this?"

"Must have been in the neighborhood of two o'clock."

The sheriff shot a questioning glance at Mr. Haley.

"It was Len; no doubt about it," said that worthy, nodding. "He's only a kid and I s'pose he got scared when he found himself alone in the dark."

"You don't know which way he was going at that time?" asked the sheriff, turning again to the boys.

"It would be hard to say. At one time the cries seemed to be nearer, then got farther, and finally ceased altogether. We all heard them, including the ladies, and none of us went back to bed until everything was quiet."

"Let's see," said the sheriff; "I didn't quite catch your names."

"Mine's Jim Barlow. This is Gerald Blank. We're members of a camping party from Baltimore. We arrived in the mountains yesterday morning for a two weeks' stay."

"Blank?" repeated the sheriff. "Blank? Any relation to Blank, the broker?"

"He's my father," said Gerald.

"That so? Then I'm right glad to meet you." The sheriff extended a horny hand, which Gerald shook. "I knew him years ago. Didn't realize he had a boy as old as you. Well, we must be getting on. Sorry you can't give us a clue to the boy's whereabouts."



"It is too bad," said Gerald. "When we last heard the cries they came from about that direction," and he extended his finger down the mountainside. "Then they grew fainter and seemed to be moving off to the east. We'd like very much to help you, sheriff. If we'd any idea it was only a boy, and a scapegoat, at that, we could have caught and held him until your arrival."

"Well, I could hardly expect that," returned the minion of the law, with a good-natured smile. "Come, Haley, let's be off. He can't have gone far between midnight and now, so we're apt to overhaul him at some of the farm houses up the valley. Good-by, boys—see you later!"

The men tipped their hats to the ladies out of courtesy for their presence, and rode away.

"Hope they don't see us later," said Jim, as he stood with Gerald gazing after their receding forms.

"No; for he might catch us at an inopportune moment. If they ever found Len in our camp there'd be the very dickens to pay."

"Couldn't do anything to us, Gerald, and I don't believe he'd have any right to take Len, unless there's some papers filed in the court of this county, appointing James Haley his guardian. Just merely because he's an orphan don't give a man a right to take him and hold him against his will—even if he is his uncle."

"Boys, I really must congratulate you on your presence of mind," said Dorothy, when the riders had disappeared from view. "You handled the matter perfectly. Wait till I tell Ephraim to let Len come out from under cover," and she left them to enter the tent.

Len was nearly roasted when he emerged from beneath the quilt, for the weather was excessively warm and his clothes were not as thin as they might have been. But he was smiling bravely through the perspiration, and rejoiced with the others that he had been so lucky as to escape being returned to captivity.

"I don't understand how my uncle ever influenced the sheriff to help him hunt for me," he said. "I know Sheriff Dundon, and he's a mighty good man. He knows very well the way I was treated, so Uncle James must have pulled the wool over his eyes some way. Well, I reckon it don't matter much now. They're gone and I hope they'll never come back."

"It won't do to take any chances, yet, Len," said Aunt Betty. "You'll have to spend most of your time in the tent, with someone constantly on watch outside. It will be pretty hard on you, but better than going back to the life you left."

"I don't mind in the least, Mrs. Calvert—staying in the tent, I mean. I'd do anything to escape my uncle. He's certainly the meanest man on earth."

Aunt Betty's plan was followed during the next few days, but neither Sheriff Dundon or James Haley put in a further appearance at the camp. Aunt Betty cautioned Len, however, to keep out of sight until the end of the trip, at which time he was to be piled into the big auto and taken with them back to Baltimore.

The party had been in the mountains a week before Jim and Gerald decided to put into practice their oft-repeated resolve to go fishing. Dorothy and Molly begged to be taken along, and to this the boys reluctantly consented.

The trout stream in the valley was the objective point of the pilgrimage. Here, in the spot where Molly had discovered the fish swimming about in plain view of those on shore, they would try their luck.

Aurora, interested in a book, refused to be tempted by the other girls, and stated her intention of remaining in camp with Aunt Betty, Ephraim and Len.

With a bundle of sandwiches and their tackle, the fishing party got away from camp in the early morning, planning to spend the better part of the day in enticing the denizens of the deep to nibble at their flies. Then the return to camp could be made in the cool of the evening between sundown and dark.

By nine o'clock they were seated on the bank of the stream, poles in hand, and lines cast far out into the stream.

At first the girls kept up an incessant chatter, in spite of the warning from Jim and Gerald that if they did not stop they would scare the fish away.

"Nonsense!" cried Molly, laughing aloud at the warning. "Fish can't hear."

At this Jim and Gerald exchanged glances of amused tolerance.

"Told you we should have left 'em at home," said the latter.

"I knew it," Jim replied. "It was only through the kindness of my heart that I agreed to let them come."

This statement only served to amuse Dorothy and Molly, and their laughter rang out over the water so loudly, that Jim and Gerald, with sighs of resignation, began winding in their lines with the evident intention of departing.

At first this increased the merriment of the girls. But when they saw the boys taking their poles apart, and stowing the sections away in their fishing bags, they realized that they had really incurred the displeasure of their young friends by what they had intended as a joke.

"Come," said Dorothy, soberly. "You boys are not going home?"

"Oh, aren't we?" demanded Gerald.

"Yes; we're going home," Jim said, rather curtly. "Where did you think we were going—to the village?"

"Oh, come! You must have known Molly and I were only joking?"

"Of course, they knew it," Molly chimed in, in a careless tone.

"There's such a thing as carrying a joke too far," said Gerald.

"No use to argue with a couple of girls, Gerald," said Jim. "Let's take 'em home and come back to-morrow."

"Suits me," responded his chum. "I hate to think we've had this long jaunt for nothing, but there's an old saying to the effect that we must learn by experience."

Their poles "knocked down," and stowed away in their canvas cases, the boys picked up their coats and prepared to move.

"Oh, I say, this is a shame!" cried Dorothy. "I had counted on having such a good time."

"So had I," echoed Molly—"such a good time!"

"So had we," said the boys in unison.

"But we didn't," Jim added.

"No; we didn't," echoed Gerald.

"Well, it wasn't our fault," said Dorothy.

"We thought you could take a joke," said Molly.

"We can," Gerald replied. "It's a good joke. We're willing to admit it's on us. You asked to come; we consented. That was our fault, not yours."

"Yes," Jim put in, "we thought you knew at least the rudiments of fishing."

Molly shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, dear, what a fuss over nothing," she groaned. "And to think I started it all by remarking that fish have no ears. And I'll stand by my statement. I'm sure I am right."

"No use to argue with a girl," said Jim.

"Not a bit," Gerald replied. "Let's get 'em back to camp."

"I refuse to go!" The fire fairly flashed from Dorothy's eyes. "I came down here to fish, and fish I shall until I get ready to stop, and you're a bigger 'it' than I think you are, Molly Breckenridge, if you let two unruly boys bluff you into doing as they wish."

"Then we'll have to leave you here," said Jim, in the most matter of fact tone he could muster.

Gerald nodded assent.

Then both boys assumed an independent air, and acted as if they were going to leave—as much as to say that settled the matter.

"Well, let's be going," said Gerald, casting a sly glance toward Dorothy, and noticing that she made no move to wind in her line. He picked up his basket and threw an inquiring glance at Jim.

"Of course, if the girls agree to keep still, it won't be necessary for us to go," said Jim.

"Too bad we didn't think of that before we wound in our lines," Gerald lamented.

"Well, it's never too late to let them out again," Dorothy said, coolly.

"Will you promise to be quiet, Dorothy?"

"I promise nothing, Jim Barlow!"

"Oh, come now; don't act contrary!"

"It's not me who's contrary, and you know it very well."

"You said you were going back to camp. Why don't you go?" Molly flung at them, tauntingly.

"Well, by cracky, we should; it would serve you right," Gerald responded, slightly impatient. "You girls have no right to treat us this way. We brought you with us to give you a good time, and it seems that you might respect our wishes a little. No one can catch fish with a regular gab-fest going on on the bank."

"Go along and don't bother us," admonished Dorothy.

At that instant her floater began to bob fiercely up and down. There was a strong tug on her line, and the reel began to revolve at a high rate of speed, as Mr. Fish, evidently aware that in snapping what appeared to be a nice, fat fly, he had gotten decidedly the worst of it, made a desperate effort to get away.

"Hold him!" cried Molly, rising on the bank and waving her arms excitedly.

"Oh, yes, hold him," said the boys, exchanging glances of amusement.

"Hold him?" Dorothy gritted her teeth. "You just know I'll hold him! We'll show these young gentlemen that fish can be caught when there is noise on the bank. Oh, we'll show them!"

The reel was revolving more slowly now, and before the end of the line was reached, had ceased altogether. Then the girl, a light of triumph in her eyes, began to wind in her prize. It was a slow task and a hard one, for when the denizen of the river found he had again encountered resistance, he renewed his struggle for freedom. Once he nearly jerked the girl off the bank into the water, greatly to the delight of Jim and Gerald, who had settled in a comfortable nook under the trees with the avowed intention of being "in at the finish." That Dorothy would fail to land the fish they were quite sure, and to be on hand with a hearty laugh when her disappointment came, would in a measure atone for the trouble of bringing the girls on the trip.

Little by little the struggling fish was brought nearer, until, with a quick jerk of her pole, the girl lifted him clean of the water and swung him over her head to the shore.

So quickly did it happen that Jim was unable to get out of the way, and the fish, which was a three-pound trout, struck him squarely in the face, bowling him over in the grass, and causing him to drop the fishing tackle he was holding in his hands, long enough to brush the water from his eyes.

Now it was the girls' turn to laugh, and they did not neglect the opportunity.

"Thought I couldn't catch a fish, didn't you, Jim Barlow?" cried Dorothy. "Well, I trust you now see the error of your judgment. I caught him, and you caught him, too, only you caught him where I didn't—across the face."

At this both girls burst out laughing again, and Gerald, no longer able to restrain himself, convulsed at the sight of Jim as he went tumbling backward with his eyes and nose full of water, was forced to join them. They laughed so loudly that Jim first smiled, then burst into a guffaw himself. He had been inclined to be angry at the humiliation imposed upon him by the fish, but now the ludicrous side of the affair appealed to him. He admitted that Dorothy had all the best of the argument and wound up by declaring that he intended trying his luck at the fish again.

Dorothy, in the meantime, had walked over and picked up her squirming catch, which she detached from the hook and dropped in the basket she had brought with her for that purpose.

"Here goes again!" she cried, and fastening a new fly on her line, she cast it far out into the stream. "Better hurry, you people, or I'll have the record for the day."

Gerald and Jim, thus admonished, began undoing their fishing tackle, and soon the quartet were fishing as if their lives depended on what they caught that afternoon. And the strangest part about it was that nobody—not even the girls—said a word! Silence reigned supreme. So, although Dorothy had triumphed in showing the boys the folly of keeping absolutely silent, the boys had also won their point in getting the girls so interested that neither cared to talk.

The fish began to bite with unusual frequency, and soon each member of the party had a fine string in the basket. Lunch was forgotten, so eager was each to beat the other's record, and so nearly equal were the numbers of fish caught by each, they were afraid to stop to count them for fear they would be losing valuable time.

But finally, when the declining sun told them that the afternoon would soon be gone, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at their stomachs, a general agreement caused all to wind in their lines.

The fish were counted and it was seen that Dorothy had made the best record with seventeen trout of various sizes. Gerald came a close second, having sixteen, while Molly and Jim followed in the order named with fourteen and twelve respectively.

Lunch was eaten—or rather devoured, for they were ravenously hungry—in the shade of the big trees on the bank before preparations were made for the return to camp.

"Wish those fish were up the mountain," sighed Jim.

"Oh, it will be easy to carry them," said Molly.

"Yes; easy for you, because Gerald and I will have to carry all you've caught as well as our own."

"How clever of you to guess that," Dorothy said, laughing. "You're a bright boy, Jim."

"Yes; a little too bright sometimes," he returned. "Next time I come fishing I hope I shall be bright enough not to invite you girls."

"You did not invite us; we invited ourselves," said Molly with some spirit.

"And they should be well satisfied," said Dorothy. "If it had not been for us they would have gone back to camp before the fish commenced to bite, and then we would have had none."

"Pooh, pooh!" said Jim.

"And again pooh, pooh!" said Gerald.

Then, without further ado, the boys picked up their loads and the climb back to the camp was begun.

They reached their destination tired from the exertion of the climb and generally weary from the day's strenuous outing, but soon the odor of fried fish made them glad they had taken the trip and that the results had been so satisfying.



CHAPTER VIII

THE JOURNEY HOME

The next few days passed quickly to the campers, who were loath for the time to approach when they would have to "pull up stakes" for the return to Baltimore.

Among the excursions following the fishing trip, was another of a similar nature, participated in alone by Jim and Gerald. But as the results were considerably less than on the day the girls had accompanied them, there was a hearty laugh at the boys' expense when they returned to camp. This they accepted good-naturedly, however.

At one time or another the whole face of the mountain was explored, many curious things being discovered. Among them was a cave of large extent, where stalactites and stalagmites abounded in great profusion. Many were broken off to be taken back home as mementoes of the trip.

Nothing further had been heard from James Haley and Sheriff Dundon, and during the last few days in camp Len was allowed to show himself, though he did not venture far from the tents, fearing to take a risk that might be the means of placing him again in captivity.

By the time the day for departure came, the lad had won his way into the hearts of everyone. Aunt Betty and Dorothy were so taken with his winning manners and extreme good nature that they already regarded him as a protege, and were planning how he was to be trained for the future, and given a thorough business education.

When the plan was mentioned to Len he fell into the spirit of it with an alacrity that astonished them. His resolve to make something of himself was a commendable one and showed the proper appreciation for their efforts.

On the morning which marked the end of their two weeks' stay, the boys began to gather up the camping paraphernalia which was packed in the rear chest and under the seats of the automobile.

After a short conference between the campers, it was decided that to best enjoy their last day, the afternoon should be spent running about over the mountains in the machine. The journey home would then be made by moonlight, Gerald having won Aunt Betty's consent to "speed her up." He promised that they should all be home and in bed shortly after midnight.

"Oh, dear, dear!" moaned Aunt Betty. "I see I'm in for it. Why did I ever let you persuade me to become a party to this speed mania, Gerald Blank?"

"Don't ask me why, Mrs. Calvert," Gerald responded, laughing; "I only know that you did. I have your promise, remember! And," he added, dramatically, "a Calvert never goes back on a promise."

"Oh, yes; you have my promise, but I'm sorry I gave it."

"She'll be glad she promised, when she sees how easy the big Ajax covers ground," said Jim, winking at his chum.

"I think the ride back to Baltimore by moonlight will be ideal," said Molly, rapturously.

"Isn't it strange to think that here we are over sixty miles from home, not planning to start until the moon is up, yet will be home and in bed by midnight?" said Aurora.

"Pshaw! That's nothing," cried Gerald. "It's mere play for this big Ajax. Why, I could easily do the sixty miles in a little over an hour if Aunt Betty—"

"Mercy!" screamed Aunt Betty. "In a little over an hour? Gerald, if you don't stop that silly talk, I shall sit myself down under one of these trees and refuse to budge an inch."

"Oh, you don't know how nice it is to ride fast, Aunt Betty," said Dorothy; "to feel the wind fairly blowing the hair off your head; the landscape flashing past so rapidly one can scarcely see it, and to know that—"

"Stop, Dorothy Calvert! You shall not tempt me. I'm too old to acquire such habits, and if Gerald lets his car get beyond a fair rate of speed during our journey home, I shall leap out into the ditch. Then just think how badly you all will feel."

But the boys only grinned at this, and resumed their work of taking down the tents.

Soon everything was packed in the machine but enough food for their mid-day lunch, which was eaten under the shade of the trees.

When the time to leave came at last, no one seemed happier or more eager than Len Haley. An instinctive fear seemed to possess the lad that his uncle would be prowling about the mountains and apprehend him when he least expected it; hence, to go flying away to Baltimore in a big automobile was to him the acme of delight.

The early afternoon was spent at the camp, but about four o'clock, when the sun was on the decline, and the shadows in the valley had commenced to lengthen, Gerald, at the wheel of the big Ajax, sent the machine slowly across the plateau toward the eastern mountain.

As the car moved along the girls burst into a song, and a moment later Jim and Gerald joined in. For a few moments they fairly made the welkin ring. Then as the machine was plunging down a steep descent the concert came to an abrupt end, and the inmates clutched the rails to keep from pitching forward.

Up around the side of the east mountain the auto then climbed slowly, seeming to exert itself very little for the performance of so difficult a task.

Shortly after sundown, they went spinning down into the valley to the hotel where they had stopped for the night on their trip to the mountains two weeks before.

The landlord had apparently forgotten that this was the party who had feasted on the good things he had set before them, greatly to his discomfiture; for now he put himself out to serve them a fine supper.

And everyone was hungry! Cold meats, bread, fresh country butter, and milk, with iced tea for those who desired it, and strawberry jelly and chocolate cake for dessert, made a bill of fare tempting enough to suit the most fastidious member of the party.

With the supply of gasoline replenished, both in the regular and reserve tanks, with the moon peeping over the undulating land to the eastward, shedding its brilliant rays over farm and road, the party left the village hotel for the run back to Baltimore.

Aunt Betty sat sternly in the big rear seat, with Dorothy on one side and Aurora on the other, her bonnet held firmly in place by a large veil, her lips tightly compressed in prospect of the fast ride Gerald had promised was to come. She had little to say. In her heart was a nameless dread—had been, in fact, since Gerald won her consent to allow him to run at a faster pace on the return trip.

The highways in this part of Maryland were all that could be desired, and Gerald was not long in fulfilling part of his promise. Knowing that something over half way to their destination there was for several miles a bad stretch of road, he wished to even matters by making good time until the rough spots were reached.

It was nearly nine o'clock now, and as the auto gathered speed, Aunt Betty gave a little gasp, then looked at Dorothy and bravely smiled. Gradually Gerald let the car out until she was doing fully forty miles an hour. This could be kept up only on the smooth level stretches which they encountered every now and then. In climbing the hills, the car did not average over eight. The streams of light from the gas lamps made a wobbly path in the darkness when occasionally clouds blew across the sky, obscuring the moon.

The car made very little noise. In fact, the low hum of the engine, and swish of the tires along the smooth roadway, were all that met their ears as they went flying up hill and down dale, past farmhouses and over bridges. The great highway seemed deserted save for an occasional farm wagon, which turned quickly to one side when its occupant saw their rapidly approaching lamps.

Gerald was very considerate of horses, knowing that many animals were unused to automobiles, hence were liable to become frightened at the slightest provocation.

Through the villages the speed was slackened to not more than ten miles an hour. Very few of the places had electric lights, hence Gerald was forced to depend entirely upon the moon and his lamps for guidance through crooked streets. At times they passed little groups of people, come out from nearby houses to watch them go by; at others they were chased for long distances by yelping dogs, who snapped at the wheels and in other ways tried to show their supreme contempt for a vehicle driven without horses.

Aunt Betty soon grew used to the bursts of speed, and before they were half way to Baltimore she was breathing freely once more, conscious of the fact that in Gerald the big auto had a good pilot, and convinced that did the occasion demand it, the car could be brought to a standstill within its own length.

"I believe I like it when you 'speed her up,' as you say," she finally admitted, greatly to Gerald's delight. "I hope I shan't develop a mania for speeding, however, as that would necessitate my buying a car—something which I don't feel able to do just at present."

"I shouldn't allow you to buy one," said Dorothy, a note of authority in her voice that caused a laugh from the others.

"Humph! Talks like she rules the ranch," said Jim.

"Well, maybe I do, Mr. Smarty," replied the girl. "One thing I am quite sure of—you don't!"

"Come, children; neither of you rule the ranch," Aunt Betty intervened. "I rule it and expect to do so for an indefinite period."

"See!" Jim cried, tauntingly. "Told you so! Told you so!"

Dorothy aimed a playful blow at him, but he dodged and caught her arm in a vise-like grip, refusing to let go until she had promised to be a good girl.

At ten-fifteen they passed through a village which Gerald said was the half-way mark between Baltimore and the South Mountains.

"We have rather a bad stretch of road ahead, however," he told them, "so for the next half hour it will be slower going. But wait till we strike the graveled county road this side of Baltimore. Then we'll make up some of our lost time."

But somehow this did not interest Aunt Betty. She was talking with the girls and apparently felt not the slightest tremor at the thought of going at a faster pace—a change that Dorothy noticed and commented on with no little delight.

Just when Gerald was congratulating himself that the roughest part of the trip was over, the front tire on the left exploded with a bang that brought a scream from every feminine inmate of the car.

Molly, who was nearest the noise, promptly threw her arms around Gerald's neck, and clung there as if her very life depended on it.

It was with considerable difficulty that the boy retained the presence of mind to stop the car. But he did so immediately, then gave himself up to the task of releasing Molly's arms. When he had succeeded, he kissed her on the lips, greatly to her amazement and chagrin, for the others, recovered from their momentary scare, laughed heartily.

"Gerald Blank!" she cried. "I'll never, never forgive you for that!"

"Well, seeing you came so near capsizing us by your affectionate embrace of the chauffeur, the latter individual is surely entitled to some reward for his valued services—particularly as he will now have to detain the party some ten or fifteen minutes while he does a little real hard labor."

He jumped quickly out of the machine and going around to the left front wheel, examined the exploded tire. It was perfectly flat.

"Yes;" he repeated, "this means a little work."

"That was hard luck, Gerald," said Dorothy, "particularly when you were trying to make a record run."

"Yes; it's the first trouble we've had with the machine since starting on our trip. But this is really a simple matter, Dorothy."

"Oh, I'm so glad of that."

"I shall still have the satisfaction of putting you into Bellvieu in time to be in bed by twelve—and we may even shade that time a little. Come, Jim! Get that jack out of the tool chest, and help me hoist this wheel off the ground. You'd better bring the pump, also, and we'll see how long it will take you and Ephy to inflate a tire of this size."

Jim and Ephraim both sprang to Gerald's aid. Soon the jack was under the wheel, where it required but a moment to raise the machine until the wheel was clear of the ground.

Then Gerald removed the punctured tire, pulled out the inner tube, and proceeded to put the new one in its place. With the tire back on the rim again, he attached the end of the pump to the air tube with astonishing swiftness, and Jim began at once to force the ozone into the rubber. Tiring after a few moments, he gave way to Ephraim, while Gerald, his hand on the tire, waited until it was sufficiently hard to carry the weight of the machine. Then he gave the signal to stop pumping.

Another moment sufficed to lower the wheel onto the ground, and to put the tools back in the chest. Then Gerald and his helpers crawled into the machine and the big car started off as if nothing had happened. The whole affair had not taken over ten minutes.

"I had no idea punctures were so easily remedied," said Aunt Betty. "Somehow, I have always dreaded the thought of being in an automobile away from the city when a tire blew up. But, aside from the noise, there seem to be no disagreeable features."

"Would be if you didn't happen to have an extra inner tube along," said Jim.

Gerald nodded.

"You're right. The idea is always to have one."

"But what would you do if you hadn't?" asked Dorothy.

"It would be necessary to find the hole in the punctured tube and stop it up with cement."

"And then you would have to wait hours for it to dry, I suppose?"

"No; only a few minutes. There is a preparation something like putty which you force into the puncture, and which dries in a very few minutes. Of course, a tire fixed in this way would never be considered as satisfactory as a new inner tube, yet they have been known to go many miles without the slightest trouble. In fact, you are more apt to get a new puncture, than to have the patch give out."

Time passed so quickly as the big machine shot along the level highway at a rapid pace that no one realized their whereabouts until Aunt Betty cried suddenly:

"Oh, look over there! Those must be the Northern Lights."

Her hand was extended toward a brilliant glare which lit up the sky as the moon went behind a heavy cloud.

"The Northern Lights, and in the east!" cried Dorothy. "Oh, Aunt Betty!"

"As I live that is the east! Why, I'm all turned around. Then what are those lights, my dear?"

"Baltimore, of course, you dear auntie."

"So soon? Why, it seems as if we have been out barely two hours."

"And we have been out but a very little more," said Jim, looking at his watch. "It is only eleven o'clock and it was a few minutes to nine when we left the hotel. Another half hour will put us to the gates of Bellvieu, eh, Gerald?"

"Surely," was the response, delivered in an "I-told-you-so" tone.

Gradually they began to encounter more vehicles, the majority of which seemed to be traveling toward the city.

"Strange those wagons are all going that way," said Aurora.

"Nothing so strange about it," said Jim. "Most of them are lumber wagons filled with country produce, such as vegetables, eggs and fruit. They leave the farms early in the night so as to be on hand at the Baltimore market when it opens for business in the morning."

On they flew at a high speed, the lights ahead becoming brighter and brighter. Soon an electric light burst before their vision off to the right, then another, and another, until they realized that they were, indeed, in the outskirts of Baltimore.

Gerald ran the car more slowly now, for city ordinances are very strict, imposing a low limit on the speed of autos when within the confines of a municipality. Gerald had never been fined for speeding since coming into possession of an auto, and he had made up his mind that he never would be.

Through the shopping district they went, and into a brilliantly-lighted residence street, thence into smaller, narrower streets as Gerald turned the big Ajax toward the shore of the bay.

Then old Bellvieu, lying dark and silent in the moonlight, a single light twinkling from the servants' quarters in the rear, burst upon their view. The car ran quickly along the hedge and stopped before the gate.

Gerald looked at his watch.

"It is just eleven-thirty," he said. "I have the honor to report that I have beaten the time I suggested by several minutes—enough to give you time to unload your things and get to bed before the clock strikes twelve."

Jim and Ephraim grabbed the baskets out of the big chest in the rear, while Aunt Betty and the girls seized their other belongings. Then, bidding Gerald and Aurora good night, with many thanks for the nice time they had had in the new car, they went up the pathway toward the house.

Chloe, Dinah and Metty had heard their voices, and with shouts of delight had begun to light up the mansion. By the time the party reached the gallery the big house looked as inviting as one could wish.

How soft and fine the beds seemed that night to each one of the tired camping party, for no matter how enjoyable a time they had had, they were forced to admit that there was no place like home.



CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST LESSON

The next week was a pleasant one at Bellvieu. Molly Breckenridge secured the consent of her father to remain for that long, and the girls explored every nook and corner of the old mansion and its grounds. Even the big, old-fashioned barn came in for its share of their attention.

Horseback riding is one of the chief attractions at Bellvieu. Both girls were good riders, and very fond of horses. Jim was not so anxious, but usually accompanied them when they ventured away from home.

Long rides into the country early in the morning, or in the cool of the evening, were enjoyed to the utmost. Gerald came over frequently and the big automobile served to give them many pleasant hours.

The first lesson with Herr Deichenberg had been postponed until after Molly's departure, though that young lady was not aware of it. The Herr refused to have the attention of his pupils distracted by visitors, so, while impatient to begin his labors, he consented to a postponement until Bellvieu should be clear of company and affairs running along in their natural groove.

The day for Molly's departure finally rolled around, and at the station to see her off, besides Dorothy and Jim, were Gerald and Aurora. Molly waved a last farewell from the car window as the train moved out of the station.

In Dorothy's ears still rang her promise:

"If papa consents, I will spend Christmas with you at old Bellvieu."

To which Dorothy had replied:

"Of course, he'll consent, for you're to invite him, too."

This pleased Molly greatly and she had promised to write her chum what the judge's decision was.

The first violin lesson was set for the morning after Molly's departure, Herr Deichenberg having kindly consented to come to Bellvieu, greatly to the delight of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty.

Dorothy was eager to display her ability, and, feeling every confidence in herself, was not the least bit flustered when she met Herr Deichenberg at the door and ushered him into the big drawing-room.

"It seems real good to see you again, Miss Dorothy," the old professor said. "I have been t'inking about you a great deal vhile you have been avay, und I am really anxious to have you back—really und truly anxious."

"It was good of you to come to Bellvieu, Herr. I feel that I should have gone to your studio."

"Ah! Don't mention dat. I—"

"But I am much younger than you. I can afford to exercise myself a little if it will save you trouble."

"You are younger, yes. Yet, I am not as old in body as in looks. I valk pretty straight, yet, eh, Miss Dorothy?" and laughing, he chucked her playfully under the chin.

"You walk with military precision, Herr, except on a few occasions when you forget yourself. Then I have noticed a slight stoop to the shoulders," she replied.

"Ah, vhen I forget myself, yes—und I fear dat is very often, eh?"

"No, no; I think you do remarkably well."

"Do you, really? Dat iss very nice of you to say. If you vill pay me all de time such compliments, I t'ink you need not come to my studio at all. I vill be happy to come to your great home, here." He looked out through the window, where the magnificent sweep of lawn, with its flowers, trees and hedges, made a pretty picture. "It iss beautiful—beautiful!"

While they were talking Aunt Betty, attired in a charming morning gown, well-becoming to one of her age, entered the room.

Herr Deichenberg arose with a broad smile to greet her.

"Ah, here iss de mistress of de house," he said to Dorothy, then turned to Aunt Betty, who had extended her hand with the words:

"Welcome again to Bellvieu, Herr Deichenberg."

"T'ank you, madame. It iss very kind of you. Really, if I sit here much longer, admiring de flowers und de trees, I shall forget dat I have come to give dis young lady a moosic lesson, und dat I shall have another pupil vaiting for me in de studio at eleven."

"But it is well that you occasionally forget your labors, Herr."

"Ah, yes, but—"

"I know what you are going to say—that you have your living to make."

"Madame, you have read the sordid t'oughts of an old man who is supposed to have made a great success."

"And I'm sure you have made a great success. As for the money, Herr, is that any reason you should ruin your health?"

"No, no, madame, but—"

"Ah, Herr," she interrupted again, "you are becoming too thoroughly imbued with the American spirit, which thinks of nothing more than to catch the dollars as they go rolling past. Then, after they are corralled in a bank, or invested in property, you are not satisfied, but begin to covet more."

"Madame, you have struck de key-note of it all, I fear. I plead guilty. But I also plead, in extenuation, dat I have a vife to whom I owe a great duty."

"Ah, yes, a wife! True, true; but did you ever put straight to her the question whether she would prefer to have you slave for money or give her a little more of your time for pleasure?"

"No; but I know vhat she vould say. You are right und I am wrong. But come, Miss Dorothy, de lesson! I have brought with me my own instrument. I vill get it at once."

Stepping across the room he picked up his violin case and began to unfasten the clasps, while Dorothy watched him with fascinated gaze.

"Oh, Herr," cried the girl, "you—you didn't bring your old Cremona?"

"Surely. Vhat you t'ink, dat you are not good enough to be taught on a Cremona, eh?"

"Oh, Herr, you know I didn't mean that!"

"Of course not," he laughed. "You meant dat you vould like to see it, maybe?"

"Yes, yes."

"Vell, here it iss."

For a moment Dorothy was awed as she gazed at the rather ordinary-looking violin.

Could this be the great Cremona of which she had heard so much? This—this—why, this looked more like a ten-dollar fiddle picked up in a pawnshop!

She knew, however, that the Herr would not deceive her, so she took the instrument tenderly in her hands while the old German watched her intently. When he saw the look of reverence that crossed her face, he seemed pleased.

"You vould like to try it, yes, Miss Dorothy?"

"Oh, Herr, if I only may!"

"Surely, surely. Iss it stingy I am, do you t'ink? Surely you may try it, my leetle girl. Here—use my own bow, too. It iss well resined, und in good shape for to make fine moosic. Now, let me hear you play."

Not until she had drawn the bow across the strings and heard the deep, sweet tones of the old Cremona, did Dorothy realize that in her hands she held an instrument constructed by one of the finest of the old masters—an instrument that had come down, perfectly preserved through the ages, growing better with each passing year.

As the girl played one of the simple pieces which lay uppermost on the piano-rack, the big living-room was filled to overflowing with matchless melody. So clear and pure were the tones that Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Was it indeed she who made such delightful music, or was she dreaming?

Herr Deichenberg's voice brought her back to her normal state of mind.

"It iss beautiful—de melody. I did not believe you could do it, even on a Cremona."

"It is not me, Herr, but this wonderful violin," the girl cried in admiration.

"Oh, come, now, vhen ve simmer t'ings down to a fine point, de Cremona iss not so different from your own instrument, Miss Dorothy."

"Oh, Herr, surely you are mistaken. Why, I seem to be dreaming when I am playing on the Cremona."

"Und vhy iss dat? Because you have made up your mind dat dis iss absolutely de finest violin in de whole vorld, und have prepared yourself to hear somet'ing vhich iss not there. De tones are clear und full, but so are those of your own violin, on vhich you played for me vhen I vass here before."

Dorothy shook her head in disbelief, unable to appreciate the full truth of his words.

Herr Deichenberg smiled.

"You von't believe me, eh? Very vell. Let us on with de lesson. I shall convince you at another time."

"I'm afraid you will have a hard time ever convincing me of that," the girl replied.

Dorothy's own violin was tuned, and on this, under the music master's direction, she ran scales for the better part of an hour—to limber her fingers, Herr Deichenberg said.

"But they are already limber, Herr," she returned, in a tone of mild protest.

"Vait, vait," he good-naturedly said. "Vait just a few veeks und den you vill see vhat you shall see. I vill have you doing vhat you Americans call 'stunts' on dat violin. Really, it vill surprise you! Your fingers are stiff. See; I vill show you. Now, try dis exercise—here!" He opened one of her music books and pushed the music before her.

"Right there, now. One—two—t'ree! One—two—t'ree!—"

Dorothy swung off into the exercise with apparent ease, but soon reached a difficult scale in the third position. Somehow her fingers would not go where she intended them. She tried it once—twice—then stopped, flushing.

"You see?" said the Herr professor. "If I vant to be mean, I vould say, 'I told you so.'"

"Oh, Herr, I beg your pardon! I will never dispute your word again—never—never! My fingers are stiff. They are all right for ordinary music in the first and second positions, but the third I can hardly do at all, and I'm sure I have practiced and practiced it."

"Surely you have practiced it, but never as you shall during de next few veeks. It iss only by constant application to a certain method dat great violin players are made. Dey are expected to accomplish de impossible. Dat may sound rather vague to you, but you vill some day understand vhat I mean."

"I understand what you mean now, Herr. I find an exercise which it is impossible for me to play. But I keep everlastingly at it until I can play it. In that way I have achieved what seemed to be the impossible."

"Dat iss it—dat iss it! You catch my idea exactly. Do you t'ink you vill be able to accomplish many of those impossible t'ings?"

"I shall perform every task you set for me, no matter how long or how hard I have to try."

"Ah, now, dat iss de proper spirit. If all young ladies vere like you vhat a beautiful time de moosic teachers vould have."

"They would, Herr?"

"Oh, yes; dey vould be so overjoyed dat dey vould be avay on a vacation most of de time."

"I suppose you have all sorts of pupils, Herr?" said Aunt Betty, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between the girl and the professor.

"Yes; mostly young girls, madame, und to say dat dey are a big trouble iss but expressing it mildly. In fact, dey are de greatest of my troubles. Dey pay me vell, yes, but vhat iss pay vhen you must labor with dem hour after hour to get an idea t'rough their heads? Vy, for example I vill show you. A lady pupil vill valk into my studio, t'row off her t'ings und prepare for a lesson. Vhen I say now you do dis or dat, she vill reply, 'Oh, Herr, you should not ask of me de impossible!' Und I try to explain dat it iss only by practice dat she vill ever make a great musician. Den perhaps she vill reply: 'Vell, if I had known it vass such hard vork maybe I vould not have tried to play,' und den she heaves such a sigh dat for a moment I really feel ashamed of myself for making her vork so hard. Oh, madame, it iss awful! Sometimes I almost go crazy in my head." He turned again to Dorothy. "But, come, young lady, back to de lesson, und ve vill soon be t'rough."

Dorothy nodded her willingness, which caused the Herr professor to smile and nod delightedly at Aunt Betty.

"Dat iss de proper spirit," he kept repeating, half aloud.

Scale after scale the girl ran over, repeating dozens of times the same notes, until Herr Deichenberg would nod his head that she had played it to his satisfaction. Then on to another and the same performance over again.

Her work won from the Herr the heartiest of commendation, and when he left he told both Dorothy and Aunt Betty that he would look forward to the next lesson with a great deal of pleasure.

Thereafter, twice each week, the Herr came to Bellvieu. He seemed to dearly love the old place, for during her first four weeks of lessons Dorothy was unable to win from him his consent to take her to his home.

Finally, he agreed that the next lesson should be in the studio, but only after considerable pleading on her part.

"I am doing it to please you," he told her, "for if I have my vay, I vould much rather come to dis beautiful place."

Dorothy could hardly wait for the time of the visit to come.

The Herr had asked Aunt Betty to accompany her great-niece, to meet Frau Deichenberg, and on the morning in question they set out together in the barouche.

Metty finally drew up on a quiet street before the quaintest-looking little house Dorothy had ever seen. It was not a bungalow, yet about it were certain lines which suggested that type of structure. It was all in one story, with great French windows on two sides, and with trailing vines climbing the porch posts onto the roof in thoroughly wild abandon.

Herr Deichenberg came out to meet them and lead them into the living-room of the house, where Dorothy and Aunt Betty met for the first time Frau Deichenberg, who had been out on the occasion of Aunt Betty's first visit. The Frau proved to be a kindly German lady who spoke English with even more accent than her distinguished husband.

The welcome to the studio was complete in every way, and as Dorothy went from room to room examining the rare curios and works of art, which the Herr and his wife had gathered from various parts of the world, she felt that her visit had not been in vain.

In the large, well-lighted music room, where the Herr received his pupils, Dorothy found the things of greatest interest. Half a dozen violins were scattered about on the shelves, or lying on the old-fashioned piano, while clocks of every conceivable size and shape, bronze statues from the Far East, and queerly woven baskets from the Pampas, mingled with the Mexican pottery and valuable geological specimens from her own United States.

Finally, when the girl's curiosity had been thoroughly satisfied, Aunt Betty and Frau Deichenberg were shown into another room and the music master and his pupil began their lesson.

It was not until the lesson was over that the Herr turned to his pupil with a merry twinkle in his eyes and observed:

"You are so fond of moosic, perhaps you do not know dat every year I give a concert in de theater before de opening of de regular season."

"Oh, yes, I have often heard of your concert," the girl replied. "I have longed to go to them, but something has always kept me from it."

"Vell, you are going to my next one."

"I am? Oh, how good of you, Herr!"

"Yes, it iss very good of me, for there you shall meet one of my most promising pupils."

"Oh, tell me who it is," she replied, unable to restrain her curiosity.

"Vell, it iss a secret dat has not yet been vhispered to a soul. But I don't mind telling you. De name of de young lady iss Miss Dorothy Calvert."

"Why, Herr Deichenberg, you don't mean that—?"

Dorothy stopped short. A lump came into her throat and she was unable to continue.

"Dat iss just vhat I mean," he smiled, reading her thoughts. "You are to play at de concert, vhere you are expected to do both yourself und your moosic teacher proud."

"Oh, Herr, I hadn't imagined such an honor would be conferred upon me this year. Why, surely there are other pupils who have more talent and can make a better showing for you than I?"

"My dear young lady, it iss I who shall be de best judge of dat."

"Oh, I didn't mean—"

"Never before have I had a young lady refuse an invitation to play at my concert."

"Why, Herr, I haven't refused. You don't understand me. I—I—"

"Yes, yes. I understand you perfectly—I have surprised you and you have not yet found time to catch your breath. Iss dat not so?"

"Yes, but—"

"Oh, no 'buts.' I know vhat you vould say. But it is not necessary. I have made up my mind, und once I do dat, I never change."

"I know, Herr, but—"

"Didn't I say no 'buts'? You shall show de people of Baltimore vhat a really fine violinist dey have in their midst."

"Well, if you insist, of course I shall play. And are you to play my accompaniments?"

"I, my dear young lady? No, no; I shall have my hands full vidout attempting dat. But you shall have a full orchestra at your beck und call to t'under at you vun minute und to help you lull de audience to sleep de next."

"Herr, you overwhelm me!"

"Such vass not my intention. I am merely telling you vhat I know to be de truth. You are a remarkable girl und nothing I can say vill turn your head. I have tried it und I know. Dat iss vhy I do not hesitate to say it."

When Dorothy Calvert left Herr Deichenberg's studio that morning she was the happiest girl in Baltimore.



CHAPTER X

HERR DEICHENBERG'S CONCERT

Herr Deichenberg's concert was but a month away, and Dorothy, despite the hotness of the weather, practiced as she never had before.

After her visit to the studio Herr Deichenberg resumed his comings to Bellvieu. He seemed never to tire descanting on the beauties of the old estate, and in this way won a warm place in the hearts of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty—aside from his many other fine qualities.

Aunt Betty had been delighted at the thought of Dorothy's appearing at the Herr's concert.

"His affairs are the finest of their kind given in the city," she told the girl, "and it is an honor you must not fail to appreciate. The Herr would not have invited you to appear had he not been sure of your ability to uphold his standards."

The week before the concert Herr Deichenberg came out one morning in a particularly good humor—though, to tell the truth, he seemed always bubbling over with agreeable qualities.

"It iss all arranged," he told Dorothy—"for de concert, I mean. De theater has been put in readiness, und you should see de decorations. Ah! Vines trailing t'rough de boxes, und de stage just loaded down with palms. Und yet I am not t'rough, I have been offered de loan of some of de finest plants in de city. I tell you, Miss Dorothy, it iss very nice to have friends."

"It is indeed," the girl responded. "A little inspiration from them can go a long way toward helping us accomplish our tasks."

The lesson went unusually well that morning.

Dorothy was practicing certain pieces now, which she was to render at the concert, the selections having been made from among the classics by the Herr professor. There were two pieces, and a third—a medley of old Southern airs—was to be held in readiness, though the music master warned his pupil not to be discouraged if she did not receive a second encore.

The Herr was even more particular than was his wont—if such a thing were possible. The missing of the fraction of a beat—the slightest error in execution or technique—he would correct at once, making her play over a certain bar time and again, until her playing was to his entire satisfaction. Then he would encourage her with a nod of approval, and go on to the next.

But Dorothy did not mind this; rather, she revelled in it. Her heart was in her prospective career as a violinist, and she was willing to undergo any discomfort if she could but attain her ambition.

On the morning before the concert Herr Deichenberg made his last call at Bellvieu—before the event. By this time Dorothy had learned well her lessons, and the Herr required that she run over each piece but once. Her execution was perfect—not a note marred or slurred—and he expressed his satisfaction in glowing terms.

"You vill now take a vell-deserved rest," he said. "Please do not touch a violin until you arrive at the theater to-morrow evening."

"I can hardly wait for to-morrow evening to come, Herr," she replied. The eagerness in her voice caused the music master to smile.

"Ah, but you must not be too anxious, young lady. Better it iss to get de concert off your mind for a vhile. Vhat iss de use of playing de whole affair over in your mind, until you are sick und tired of it? No, no; don't do it. Vait till you get de reality."

"As well try to banish my dear Aunt Betty from my thoughts," was the answer of the smiling girl.

"Ah, vell, vhen you are as old as I, those t'ings vill not vorry you."

"Ah, but Herr, you are worried yourself—I can see it."

"Vhat! Me vorried? Oh, my dear young lady, no; my composure is perfect—perfect."

"You are worrying right now."

"Over vhat, please?"

"Well, first you are wondering whether the confidence reposed by you in one Miss Dorothy Calvert will be justified when she faces a great audience for the first time in her life. Now, 'fess up, aren't you, Herr Deichenberg?"

"No, no; I have not de slightest doubt of dat."

"Then you are worrying because you fear some of the other numbers on the programme will not come up to your expectations. Now, aren't you?"

"No, no, Miss Dorothy. No; I do not vorry—of course, there iss dat young lady who is to render de piano selections from 'Faust'—er—yet, I have no cause to vorry. No, no, I—"

Dorothy interrupted with a laugh.

"Your troubled expression as you said that gave you away, Herr. But I suppose it is very bold and impudent of me to tease you about these matters."

The Herr smiled.

"Oh, you just tease me all you vant—I like it. But really, if I vass vorried, I vould tell you—surely I vould. Er—if dat young lady vill just remember vhat I haf told her, she—"

Again the troubled expression flitted over Herr Deichenberg's countenance, and Dorothy, seeing that he was really worried though he would not admit it, decided not to tease him further.

He soon took his departure, and the girl rushed away to tell Aunt Betty that the Herr was well satisfied with her work, then to talk incessantly for half an hour about the coming event. The concert was by far the largest affair that had ever loomed up on Miss Dorothy's horizon, and she naturally could not get it off her mind.

The great opera house in which the concert was to be held was packed with people the next evening.

Dorothy, on the stage, peeping through a little hole in the curtain, saw one of the most fashionable audiences old Baltimore had ever turned out—the largest, in fact, Herr Deichenberg had ever drawn to one of his affairs, though the drawing power of the old professor had always been something to talk about.

Entering the stage entrance early in the evening, dressed in an elaborate white evening gown, made expressly for this occasion at one of the great dressmaking establishments, Dorothy had deposited her violin in her dressing-room and sallied forth to view the wonders of Fairyland—for such the stage, with its many illusions and mysteries, seemed to her.

She took great care to keep out of the way of the stage hands, who rushed back and forth, dragging great pieces of scenery over the stage as if they were but bits of pasteboard. Drops were let down, set pieces put in place, until, right before the eyes of the girl, a picture, beautiful indeed, had appeared. Where there had been but an empty stage now stood a scene representing a magnificent garden, with statuary, fountains and beautiful shrubbery all in their proper places. True, a great portion of this was represented by the back drop, but Dorothy knew that from the front the scene would look very real. Great jagged edges of wood wings protruded on to the stage—three on either side—while benches and palms were scattered here and there to properly balance the picture. Then, as if to force into the scene an incongruity of some sort, a grand piano was pushed out of the darkness in the rear of the stage, to a place in the garden, where it stood, seemingly the one blot on the landscape.

"A piano in a garden!" exclaimed Dorothy, and laughed softly to herself. "Who ever heard of such a thing? Yet, of course, the concert could not proceed without it."

"Ah, my dear, here you are! You are fascinated with it all, yes?" questioned Herr Deichenberg, as he passed in a hurry. She nodded, smiling, and saw him rush hurriedly to the dressing-rooms below the stage to make sure all his pupils were present.

As he went the house electrician, with each hand on portions of the big switchboard, threw on the border and bunch lights, making the great stage almost as light as day. Then, out in front, Dorothy heard the orchestra as it struck into the overture, and hastening away, she seated herself in her dressing-room to await her turn on the programme.