"Now the symbol of membership is the tall pine tree. That stands for simplicity and strength. Of course, you know the watchword—'Work, Health, and Love.' The first two letters of each form the one word 'Wohelo.' After joining you'll learn everything.

"Honors are symbolized by different colored beads—'Health craft,' bright red beads; 'Home craft,'orange; 'Nature love,' sky blue; 'Camp craft,' wood brown; 'Hand craft,' green; 'Business,' black and gold; and 'Patriotism,' red, white and blue. These, and the seven laws, are represented by the seven fagots on the ring. The beads are strung on leather and may become part of the ceremonial dress.

"Now the name of my Camp Fire is 'Ohio.' It is an Indian name and means 'beautiful.' You know Ohio is called the 'Buckeye State,' Buckeye meaning 'Ohio Horse-Chestnuts.' Unlike your horse-chestnut, our tree is small and its flower is red. So our 'totem' or symbol is Buckeye,' or the 'Horse-Chestnut.'

"The girls are to meet at our house the night before we start. Then you can learn the sign, how to keep count, and the different poems you are to say; and the 'Wohelo' ceremony, toasts, songs, etc. This is all that I shall tell you now. Our camp is near the Muskingum river. We have no very high elevations in Ohio. The highest is only about fifteen hundred feet. Where we go is a pleasant stretch of woods. There we camp out for a month or so. A clearing has been made; we can put up tents and be very comfortable. It is not far from a small town and the girls can walk in when they choose. Other 'Camp Fires' will be there as well, so there will be no lack of society. But, my dear girl, if I were you I'd join one in New York and keep steadily at it. It's the only way to become proficient and gain honors and advancement, and that's your aim, isn't it?"

"It is, Kate," replied the girl, "I shall surely join this fall. An aunt of one of the girls in our set is a Guardian of eight girls or more, and she's simply lovely. I shall certainly keep it up—never you fear."



CHAPTER XIX

ETHEL MEETS HER UNCLE AND AUNT

Aunt Susan was most interested in the description of the costume, its symbols, etc. Ethel thanked her gratefully for her gift, impulsively kissing her many times. The elderly woman had grown very fond of the girl and dreaded parting with her, but she knew that the new work she was about to take up would be of the greatest benefit to her, not only then but in the future, for Ethel had softened wonderfully. She had lost all of her false pride and worldliness. It was as though a new girl had arisen from the ashes of the old one, and now she stood revealed as Nature had intended her—without sham,—and knowing that it was she who had helped to bring it about, Aunt Susan was happy. She was proud of the two girls—her grandnieces,—Ethel with the delicate beauty of a bud, while Kate appeared and reminded her of a full blown rose. She was tall and finely formed, with hair that envious people often termed red, but it really had escaped being red and was auburn. The girl wore it in coils around her shapely head. Her eyes were of the softest brown, while Ethel's were of a deep blue. Each girl had regular features and fine teeth. They resembled each other to that extent that they were often taken for sisters, and Tom was proud of them as well and was delighted to take them out.

"Why," he'd say, "when I'm out with you two girls everyone makes such a fuss over me that I really feel as though I was 'somebody,' and I know it's all on your account. The fellows come up and say 'Harper, old man, I haven't seen you for an age,' or, 'Harper, I heard of you through so and so last week. I wish to congratulate you on that case, etc.' But I know what it means,—they want an introduction to you girls—and I strut around like a peacock."

But the day for their departure arrived only too soon:

"I'll write every other day to you, Auntie," called Ethel from the car window.

"How about writing to me?" shouted Tom.

"Once a week to you, Tom," laughed Ethel.

Uncle John Hollister met them at the depot and Ethel at once fell in love with Kate's mother, who seemed more like the girl's sister. They vied with one another to give Ethel a good time and she enjoyed every moment. She met the Camp Fire girls, some of whom were charming. Two of the girls—Mattie Hastings and Honora Casey—she did not care for. To her they seemed unlike the others and she found herself saying mentally, "They are extremely common; I wonder where Kate picked them up," immediately after which she would become ashamed.

"I'm going back into my old ways," she thought. "These girls are to be my sisters and companions. I must like them."

Honora had a large red face, partially freckled. Her voice was loud and coarse. She seemed to be one of the "nouveau riche," as Ethel's mother was wont to say of people grown suddenly wealthy and prosperous. Yet Ethel was not alone in her dislike of the girl. No one seemed to care for her, although each member treated her politely.

Mattie Hastings had small eyes that never seemed to look you quite fully in the face. She had also an obsequious manner. At times it was fairly repellent.

"I wouldn't trust her," Ethel said to Kate one evening.

"She's not popular, I admit, and her manner is against her, but, Ethel, I have never found a fault in her; that is, one I could criticise. She is very quick to learn and seems ambitious. She came to me and asked if she might join. They are poor but her people are respectable. Now Honora Casey's parents are the wealthiest people here. They came into their wealth suddenly. The father is a builder and contractor. The mother is hurting the girl by her method of trying to get into society. She fairly pushes everything before her. Mr. Casey, or Pat Casey, as he is called, is a good-hearted Irishman. He is sensible and knows that it is his money that buys everything, even social standing, for although much respected he is a man of no education, nor has his wife any more than he, but she tries to bluff it through, therefore she is not popular. Nora has been educated, or half educated, at a Convent. She never graduated, but she's so good-hearted one can overlook her mother's faults. You see, Ethel, it takes all sorts of people to make a world. We must try to excuse their failings and see only the best in them. Of course, you know we are an old family of good standing and can go where we choose. Perhaps it was on that account that Mrs. Casey made Nora join my Camp Fire Girls, but she seemed most anxious that she should. It doesn't matter much. She'll make a fine woman if she sticks to her work. You see, our organization is most democratic. One has only to express a wish and she may become a member."

"The other girls are lovely," said Ethel. "I think Patty Sands is charming."

"Isn't she?" responded Kate. "Her father is an ex-Congressman. He is Judge of the Supreme Court. He didn't care for politics—refused the second term."

"Yes, I suppose it is poor taste for me to even criticise the girls, but every once in a while the old bad habit comes back and I forget my good resolutions. At heart they are probably far better girls than I, but I do wish that Mattie Hasting's eyes were not so close together."



CHAPTER XX

GATHERING OF THE "OHIOS"

That evening the girls met in Kate Hollister's library. Although it was June and there was a log fire in the fireplace it was not warm. The girls carried a small flag upon which the word "Ohio" was embroidered, and underneath appeared a horse-chestnut. Each girl had made her own flag and they were well done.

That afternoon Kate had taken her cousin to the Camp Fire counsel, where, upon her signifying the desire to become a member, the silver ring had been presented to her.

After order had been established and the roll called, Kate, who made a dignified Guardian, began to address the girls, formally introducing her cousin, the new member. Then Ethel repeated the following:

"It is my desire to become a Camp Fire Girl and to obey the Law of the Camp Fire, which is

Seek beauty, Pursue knowledge, Give service, Be trustworthy, Hold on to health, Glorify work, Be happy.

"This Law of the Camp Fire I will strive to follow."

Then she took her seat while Kate arose and explained the Law, phrase by phrase, after which Ethel stood before her and repeated the Wood Gatherer's Desire, whereupon she taught Ethel the "sign" which was made by flattening the fingers of the right hand against those of her left, which indicates crossed logs. From the first position, Ethel raised her right hand and followed the curves of an imaginary flame. Kate explained that this sign was used by the early American Indians. It may be made easier by placing the fingers of the right hand across those of the left with the forefinger slightly raised. Ethel learned how to use the sign and practiced it, after which Kate presented or awarded honors to the various girls who had worked for them. They were only the different colored beads, but each girl's eyes beamed with happiness as she received them.

Then they showed Ethel the "Count" book, in which were kept records of their work and play. The leaves were of brown paper and laced together with a leather thong or cord. The cover was of leather also. Symbolic charts for recording the requirements of the Fire Maker and Torch Bearer, as well as for nearly two hundred Elective Honors, were parts of the book. The book contained ninety-six pages. It was arranged for a group of twelve girls. Should the group grow larger, more leaves could be added. Three leaves for each girl were in the first part of the book. These were for recording the honors and requirements, making thirty-six pages. The balance of the pages were for the records of events, pictures, and pen and ink sketches, etc.

The totem of the Camp Fire is as painted on the brown leather cover. It should always tell some legend or story—some natural industry or beauty which is true to the locality in which the Camp Fire is located. The "Ohio" Camp Fire totem was a large horse-chestnut under the word "Buckeye." The first leaf was left blank; the second was the title leaf upon the top of which appeared the name of the Camp Fire, and at the bottom the date of the first council fire; following the title leaf each girl fills out her group of three leaves. On the first she will write her name, date of birth, parents' names, birthplace, and present address. She also puts down the date as she attains each rank, using for the month the Indian name. On the next leaf were symbols of all Elective Honors, and these were painted in colors corresponding to the beads received. The third leaf for each girl was for her individual symbol,—the chosen name with its meaning,—for each girl naturally wishes to own some name by which she may be known. She may hold some desire which to her may mean the way in which she may give of herself the best. Perhaps some poem has lines which she feels are a response to her desire. Not only could these girls write what happened and insert photographs of their excursions, but they were at liberty to make pen pictures along the margin of the leaves of the book—all Indian signs from a moon to a snake, telling of a trip to Rat snake Pond, etc. They were to use the rhythm of Hiawatha, which after a little practice becomes the natural language for some girls and it adds much to the interest of the Count; for instance,

"Supper over, now they hasten To their wigwams, all excitement, And from hence soon reappearing Now true Indian maidens seem they," etc.

"Now that we have initiated our new member," said Kate, "and have explained to her about the Count book, etc., we shall postpone the rest of the ceremonies until we reach Camp, as I know that each one of you will need your rest. So we'll meet at the train for the boat landing at eleven tomorrow. I hope it will be a fair day. Take plenty of wraps along for it is cold tonight and it bids fair to be so tomorrow."

Then saying goodnight to each as they left the room, Kate and Ethel found themselves alone in front of the dying fire.



CHAPTER XXI

THE TRIP UP THE RIVER

It turned out to be a lovely day. Ethel was most excited. The tents, cooking utensils, pillows, cots, etc., had been sent two days before by freight. The trunks alone remained to be taken to the boat, and they were only steamer trunks.

Uncle John went along to see them safely on board the train that connected with the small boat that plied daily up the Muskingum river.

"If you get homesick, little one," he said to Ethel, "you come right back to us. Don't you stay if you don't like it."

"Oh, Uncle John, how could I get homesick with Kate?" she replied; "but I shall miss you awfully."

The whistle blew and away they went. It was a pretty sail and the girls were in a happy frame of mind. Nora Casey looked like one immense freckle. She was in high spirits and now and then relapsed into a jolly brogue caught from her parents, for Nora was born in America.

"Faith and it's sailing that I enjoy," she said to Ethel, coming up the stairway from the deck below. "I'm afther taking some pictures of the river for our Count book." Then catching herself she talked perfectly correct without the slightest trace.

They watched the banks on either side, dotted now and then by pretty houses and thriving fields of buckwheat and clover.

Patty Sands sat by Ethel. They were very congenial. The rest of the girls chattered together. Mattie Hastings sat beside Kate Hollister and regarded her with adoring looks. Nora chatted excitedly; once in a while Kate would check her exuberance of spirits, as her voice could be heard by people on the shore. Said Kate:

"Girls, there are several beautiful legends connected with this river. I read a new one the other day. At our first Camp Fire I'll relate it. We can copy it in our book under our totem. Suppose each of you girls write an original legend and read it aloud some rainy night."

"Good for Miss Hollister!" cried Honora. "We will."

So they promised.

Soon the journey came to an end. A four-seated buckboard stage had been engaged by Uncle John to meet the party and carry them up the steep hill into camp.

"Oh, isn't this jolly?" said Ethel enthusiastically. "What lovely woods!"

And indeed they looked like a picture with the June sunshine every now and then bursting through the trees. The road was narrow but it was a good road for walking. The old buckboard creaked and groaned with its load of eight girls, their Guardian, and the driver. Every once in a while the horses would stop and the driver dismount and with his handkerchief wipe off the white sweat that looked like soapsuds.

"He's a kind man," said Kate.

Then when his handkerchief was too wet to use he would pick up handfuls of grass to use for their comfort, after which he would get up on the seat and drive them again, but he must have stopped ten times before reaching the clearing where the Camp was to be.

"Oh, look!" cried Patty. "Miss Hollister, our four tents are up."

"Yes, that's Father's surprise," she rejoined. "He sent up one of his men yesterday so that we need have no trouble." And turning to Ethel she said: "Usually we have to hire a man in the village to come up and do such work, but Father has anticipated us this time."

"Isn't he lovely?" said the girls in unison, jumping like children from the wagon and peeping into each tent. There were all the baskets ready to be unpacked, and following the buckboard came the trunks.

They quickly removed their hats, etc., and bade the driver goodbye, who by the way was now using handfuls of leaves to clean the animals; after which each one was assigned her task.

"Patty Sands, you may unpack and wipe the china. Mattie Hastings, you may put it in place. Ethel, you may watch this time, as you are a tenderfoot. Nora, you arrange the blankets, towels, and linen in order, will you?" And so Kate kept each girl working.

Mollie Long made the cots; Sallie Davis put the cooking utensils in place; Edith Overman and Edna Whitely began gathering sticks for the fire.

"Oh!" ejaculated Ethel, "that's my task, isn't it? I'm the Wood Gatherer," she said.

"The first day a tenderfoot is our guest," replied Mollie Long, laughing. "You wander away and think of the story you'll have to write and read aloud."

"In other words," broke in Nora, "go way back and sit down."

But Ethel watched the girls work. It was a revelation to her. They seemed more like boys.

"Why," explained Edna Whitely, "if necessary we could drive the stakes and put up our tent, couldn't we, Miss Hollister?"

"Yes, I hope you'd be able to," she said. "I think women do far harder work than that every day."

Kate had changed her gown for a pair of bloomers and was working hard running back and forth giving orders like a general. By twilight every trunk was unpacked and in its place. Each girl had changed her gown and the Camp Fire was ready to light after tea. Then came preparations. In one tent there was an oil stove. Outside stood a barrel of oil. It was an extra tent to be used as a kitchen. Two upright stakes with one running across, upon which were many hooks, served to hold all of the kitchen utensils. They hung from it as naturally as though in a real kitchen. One of the packing boxes became a serving table and afterwards did duty for a sink. In the center of the kitchen was a long table made of planks laid upon a wooden horse at either end. When pleasant the girls preferred to eat outside, sitting Indian fashion, but when rainy the kitchen tent made an admirable shelter.



CHAPTER XXII

AN EVENING IN CAMP

The supper was prepared by the Fire Makers,—Edith Overman, Patty Sands, and Mattie Hastings. Patty baked a couple of large pans of delicious biscuits. Mattie made tea and eggs scrambled with cheese. Edith Overman boiled some rice for dessert so that each flake stood alone and was creamy, upon which the girls put butter and sugar or butter and maple syrup. Later in the season they picked berries and had them for tea.

The meal was well cooked and they enjoyed it. Ethel cleared the table. Sallie Davis and Mollie Long washed the dishes, while Nora and Edna Whitely tidied up the tent, after which the fire was lighted with the usual ceremony. Ethel as a Wood Gatherer insisted upon bringing the twigs, wood and kindling. The Fire Maker—Edna Whitely—arranged them ready to light. Kate chanted a command to Mollie Long and Nora Casey, who were Torch Bearers.

In the meanwhile each one seated herself around the fire. Mollie and Kate then came forward, and by rubbing two sticks together ignited the paper under the shavings, and soon there burst up a beautiful flame. Then the girls arose and repeated:

"Burn, fire, burn, Flicker, flicker, flame, Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted To warm the hearts of lonely mortals Who stand without their open portals: The torch shall draw them to the fire, Higher, higher, By desire. Whoso shall stand by this hearthstone Flame fanned Shall never, never stand alone; Whose house is dark and bare and cold, Whose house is cold, This is his own. Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame, Burn, fire, burn."

After which Edna repeated the Fire Maker's song:

"As fuel is brought to the fire, So I purpose to bring My strength, My ambition, My heart's desire My joy And my sorrow To the fire Of humankind; For I will tend, As my fathers have tended, And my fathers' fathers Since time began, The fire that is called The love of man for man, The love of man for God."

They gave toasts, told stories and sang songs. Edith Overman had a keen sense of humor and she told some anecdotes that were exceedingly droll. Ethel and Edna Whitely vied in asking conundrums. Kate Hollister then related her capital story, "The Legend of the Muskingum."

"Before I begin," she said, "for Ethel's benefit I wish to tell you something of the origin of the Camp Fire. This I read in a New York magazine.

"'If we go back as far as possible we come to a primitive time when human life centered about the Camp Fire. It was, and is still, the center of family life, and today it is around the fire that the family and friends gather. The fire gives warmth and cheer to the home. The day's work is begun with fire. When the fire is out the house is cheerless. Fire stands for Home—for the Community Circle and New Patriotism. It was also in these primitive days that the first grand division of labor was made. The man,—the provider and defender of the family—went out into the wilderness to hunt, while the woman stayed at home to keep the pot boiling, and in spite of all of the changes in social life that division has remained to a very large extent until this day.

"'Some years ago, when the Boy Scout movement first started, it began with the Camp Fire. No doubt one reason for its popularity was the fact that it gave the boys opportunity to play what was in the old days the man's game—that of hunter, trapper, and soldier.

"'Boys may be Scouts, but you girls are going to keep the place to which the Scout must return. And now this movement, similar to the Boy Scouts, has been started for girls. It started also with the Camp Fire, and the organization thus formed is the Camp Fire Girls.'"

Everyone clapped their hands.

"When I read the above," said Kate, "I learned it by heart, knowing that all of you would be interested to know the true significance of the Camp Fire. And now for the Legend."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE LEGEND OF THE MUSKINGUM RIVER

"Long years ago there lived a brave Indian chief called Wa-chi-ta; in fact, he and his tribe inhabited a portion of this state—perhaps in the vicinity of these very trees.

"He was a kind and humane man, and his wife, Ona-pas-see, was like him in that respect, therefore they were dearly beloved by their subjects. They had three fine sons but no daughter, so when a little girl came to them they were exceedingly happy and there was great rejoicing.

"'As she is fair and beautiful to behold we will call her O-hi-o,' said the Chief. ("As we know, Ohio means 'beautiful,'" said Kate.)

"So little O-hi-o waxed strong and grew into a woman worthy of her name. She was idolized by Ona-pas-see and spoiled by Wa-chi-ta.

"After the manner of all maidens, when she arrived at the marriageable age from miles around came many braves to pay their respects. They brought her rare and costly gifts of silver, copper, and gold—of beads and bears' claws, as well as the skins of the fox, squirrel, and ermine.

"O-hi-o smiled sweetly and accepted her gifts with pretty speeches of thanks, but of the young men she would have none. Her parents worried not a little, as they wished to see her settled in life, living in her own wigwam. Her brothers talked with her upon her duty, but she only smiled, showing her pretty teeth and arranged her headband of beads, using for a glass the clear stream near the wigwam.

"The squaws declared that she would never marry—that soon would go her youth and good looks; then the braves would seek some maiden younger and fairer. But O-hi-o only shook her head and ran to her father to be kissed.

"'She is proud,' they said, gazing after her, 'No one is good enough for her. She will meet with her punishment—watch.'

"Then behold! there came to the village one day a young warrior—Mus-kin-gum by name. He came from a tribe many miles distant, bearing a message from its Chief to Wa-chi-ta.

"O-hi-o sat near her father. She was embroidering a wampum belt with different colored beads and shells, skilfully fashioning birds, butterflies, animals, etc. As she glanced up shyly, lo! her eye caught the eye of the young brave. The blood flew into her cheeks and her heart started in to beat as though it would burst. While delivering his speech to Wa-chi-ta young Mus-kin-gum grew scarlet and embarrassed.

"That was the beginning. It was in June. The birds sang their love songs and the air was filled with mysterious romance and sweetness. Permission had been granted by Wa-chi-ta to Mus-kin-gum to pay his addresses to his daughter O-hi-o, and when he told her of his love he said:

"'Why confess it? You have known since the day in the wigwam when our eyes met and my soul fell captive to your beauty and sweetness.'

"Then, when upon the mountain sides the trees hung out their yellow, gray and scarlet banners, with great pomp and ceremony these two young people were wed, and the festivities lasted for days. Everyone was happy because Wa-chi-ta was happy, and all of the tribe loved Wa-chi-ta.

"As for O-hi-o and Mus-kin-gum, they were content. They lived in a fine wigwam and adored each other. While her husband was in the woods shooting game or fishing, Ohio would sit in the doorway and watch for his return, and as for him, his eyes were constantly roving towards the valley where he could see the smoke coming from a certain wigwam; and when it came in volumes as though from a freshly started fire, his heart would rejoice, for then he knew that O-hi-o was preparing the supper and it was time to return.

"And so these two who loved each other lived in one continual honeymoon until the arrival of little Mus-kin-gum—a strong, lusty, little fellow looking not unlike Wa-chi-ta, which pleased his grandfather only too well. It was his father's delight to attend to his education, and his father was not only beloved by his tribe but feared by his enemies. So he wished to teach his little son to be honest, kind and fearless. He wished him to be brave and able to lead his tribe into battle—to die for them if necessary. He taught the boy to aim well and shoot with a bow and arrow, and when he was about seven years old it was his delight to accompany big Mus-kin-gum on his shooting expeditions—to help him fish and hunt. Together they would tramp for miles, and O-hi-o would sit in her doorway and embroider, thanking the Great Spirit that she had two warriors to look after instead of one; and little Mus-kin-gum would clap his hands with joy when she'd say:

"'What has the little warrior shot today?' And her husband would reply: 'He has helped me; he has carried my heavy bow and arrow; and he has also carried these,' displaying a large string of fish. 'Besides, he caught two of them.'

"Of course, they talked in Indian language, which is more beautiful than ours.

"Then on their trips Mus-kin-gum would teach his little son how to distinguish one tree from another by examining its leaves; how to tell the name of a bird by listening to its call; how to read the signs of the Indians; how to read from their tracks the whereabouts of the enemy, the trail of the animals, and the secrets of the woods—the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees, and the murmuring of the brook; about the way of flowers, ferns, etc., and the names of the different nuts and fruits that flower first and then become ripe and fall to the ground.

"He taught him about the different animals and how to trap and shoot them, and lastly he taught him about the stars and the stories connected with them. Little Mus-kin-gum could point out the Dipper or Great Bear, the Little Bear, how the last star but one in the Dipper—the star at the bend of the handle—is called 'Mizar,' one of the horses; and just above tucked close in is a smaller star—'Alcor' or 'the rider.' The Indians called these two the 'Old Squaw and the Papoose on her back,' and the young men would say to the little fellow: 'Do you see the papoose on the old squaw's back?'

"Then at once he'd point to them, and the parents would be proud of him.

"His father also taught him that shaking a blanket in Indian language meant 'I want to talk with you.' Holding up a tree branch—'I wish to make peace.' Holding up a weapon—'I am prepared to fight,' and many others like our own signal of the Camp Fires," said Kate, "which is one of the oldest of Indian signs."

"Isn't this a lovely story?" broke in Patty. "I can't wait for its finish."

"And it's late; I'll have to talk more rapidly, I fear," replied Miss Hollister, "or postpone the rest until tomorrow night."

"Oh, don't," went up a shout of young voices,—"please finish. Why, we'd keep awake all night if you stopped now."

Kate laughed good-naturedly and signed to one of the Fire Makers to put on more wood. Quickly Ethel jumped up and brought an armful, for our Camp was very ceremonious. Then as the flame burst forth anew she proceeded:

"So you can see that little Mus-kin-gum was a loveable child, endowed with more than ordinary intelligence. His father also told him of the Great Spirit, and the child listened reverently. He was an unusual child—bright for his age—and he learned quickly. He was also affectionate, and Mus-kin-gum became as weak as a woman when the little fellow would put his arms about his neck or clasp him by the hand.

"The mother had taught the child a prayer to the Great Spirit. It was this:

"'Great Spirit, listen Thou to us; guide us this day; help us, lest we fall; make our will Thy will—our ways Thy way.'

"Mus-kin-gum's great fear was that he might lose him ere he grew up to manhood, for next to O-hi-o he adored his boy.

"One morning big and little Mus-kin-gum started for the woods. They were in high spirits as they kissed O-hi-o goodbye.

"'We will shoot for you a big deer,' said the boy, 'and we will bring to you many large fish.'

"O-hi-o smiled and wished them luck. After watching until out of sight she left her wigwam to spend the day with her parents. It was a warm June day and it reminded O-hi-o of her courting days. She lived it all over again, and her heart gave thanks to the Great Spirit for His kindness—for the wonderful love and happiness that had since been hers in the possession of her husband and child. And the birds sang as on the day that Mus-kin-gum first beheld her at the door of her father's wigwam. She could see his eyes holding her own; she could feel her heart bounding in her bosom, and the red flushed into her cheek even as it had done then.

"She spent a pleasant day talking of her two dear ones and her parents were never weary of listening. They made her repeat the little prayer said to the Great Spirit by the idolized grandson.

"'I must leave now,' she said, 'and prepare their supper. They will be watching in the valley for the smoke from our wigwam,' and kissing her parents fondly she left.

"In the meanwhile it grew dark.

"'Little one,' said Mus-kin-gum, 'we must hasten. I feel rain in the air. Look at the clouds and behold it in them ready to fall.'

"And the little fellow looked and laughed, thinking it fun to be caught in a shower. They were close to the edge of the woods ready to descend the path leading to the valley, when suddenly with terrific force the rain began to fall, followed by a mighty wind that rent the clouds and rushed through the woods. Thunder pealed loud and long; lightning flashed, blinding the eyes. Little Mus-kin-gum grew pale and trembled. Never before had he feared a storm.

"'It is the voice of the Great Spirit,' he said solemnly, and began to repeat the prayer.

"Seeing his fright, his father drew the boy's head to his breast and held it there so that he might not see the lightning as it flashed with unusual violence.

"At last one flash came, and with it went the spirit of brave Mus-kin-gum. His arms loosened their hold on the screaming child. He reeled and fell backward—dead. The last bolt had killed him.

"Then followed peal after peal of thunder. The boy called to him in vain. He even tried to raise him in his arms. Seeing that it was useless he threw himself on his breast and moaned, every now and then lamenting in loud cries.

"The storm ceased. When, after the night fell, and Mus-kin-gum and the boy failed to appear, O-hi-o gathered together a band of young men from nearby and started out to search for them. O-hi-o kept calling, 'Mus-kin-gum, where art thou? My little one—art thou safe?'

"Then on the air floated a child's voice calling to its mother.

"Like a deer, O-hi-o flew to the spot. The child was rubbing his eyes. He had fallen asleep on his dead father's breast and was awakened by his mother's voice, but he never left his father's body.

"As O-hi-o drew near she beheld her poor brave handsome Mus-kin-gum lying with his face upturned to the moon, whose beams fell upon him. O-hi-o knelt down and kissed her husband but she uttered no cry—only a dull muffled moan escaped her, for she was the daughter of an Indian Chieftain and it would not have done. She had been taught to bear pain without a murmur, but the look upon her face was terrible. The young men would gladly have died to have brought young Mus-kin-gum to life for her sake.

"Then the eldest lifted the child, who still sat by his dead father's side, and placed him in his mother's arms, and as the little fellow sobbed and kissed her lo! her eyes filled with tears and she headed the procession that followed bearing the body of their beloved Mus-kin-gum adown the steep path that led to her wigwam.

"And Mus-kin-gum was buried with great ceremony and honors becoming a a man of his station. But O-hi-o took no further interest in life. The child now clung to his grandfather, who tried to take his father's place. Every day O-hi-o would lead him to the grave on the mountain side, and together they would pray to the Great Spirit.

"'And I prayed in the woods,' said the boy, 'when the thunder rolled and the lightning came, but the Great Spirit turned away his face and took my father.'

"'He was called to live among the stars,' O-hi-o would reply.

"'And is he up there?" the child would ask. 'I will look for him,' after which every night would little Mus-kin-gum stand or lie on the ground gazing at the stars, declaring at times that he could discern his father looking down upon them.

"But alas! from the day of the storm the boy could never again hear the voice of thunder, nor see the flashes of lightning, without going into convulsions. Upon the first distant roar he would jump up and down, scream loudly, and run to his mother, burying his head on her breast, relapsing into a state of semi-consciousness until the storm should have passed. It was pitiful, and poor O-hi-o's tears would fall on the boy's head, for it was thus he had stood before his father while Mus-kin-gum met his death.

"As time went on the attacks grew worse. Vainly did old Wa-chi-ta summon the best known medicine men and old women, but each one shook his or her head doubtfully. Vainly did the tribe assemble in the Council wigwam to consult with one another and pray to the Great Spirit for Mus-kin-gum's son—for his recovery. Nothing seemed to avail. The child grew worse and worse, never caring to leave his mother's side.

"Then came a bad year for the Indians. There was a drought. The fruit fell from the trees while yet in flower. The grass turned brown and withered. The crops died. The water dried up and there was none for the cattle. The different tribes met and prayed with no result.

"'We must die,' they said. 'Behold! the Lake even has gone, and something must be done.'

"And the wise men declared that the Great Spirit must be angry with them and that he demanded of them a sacrifice. The more they talked the more they believed that it was imperative. 'One life must be sacrificed,' they said,—'one life for many. That is the only way to save our people. No rain has fallen in nearly four months. The Great Spirit demands and must be obeyed.'

"Then into the midst of the wise men and chieftains came O-hi-o. She was very beautiful and the braves held their breath as they gazed upon her. By her hand she led the son of Mus-kin-gum.

"'I have heard what you said—oh! wise men,' she began. 'I have no wish to live longer. I and my son are ready to be your sacrifice. My heart is in the grave upon the mountain side. My son is not strong; his health is poor. We give ourselves for the good of our people.'

"Many wept. The wise men regarded her as they might an angel sent by the Great Spirit. Her parents gazed upon her with pride and adoration.

"'But,' she continued, 'I would choose the manner of my death. On the pinnacle of rocks overlooking this valley, where each day that he hunted in the woods my dear Mus-kin-gum would stand and wave to me, tomorrow night 'neath the light of the moon, with my son's hand in mine—together he and I will leap from that rock into the valley below,—the once lovely valley now so desolate. Do not refuse me,' she cried, as many protested suggesting others not so young. 'No, I will gladly make the sacrifice for my dear father's people.'

"So they counselled together and accepted the offer made by their Chieftain's daughter.

"O-hi-o and Mus-kin-gum spent their last day with the old people, who, while filled with pride, were heartbroken. They clung to the mother and child, nor were they ashamed to show their love and weakness.

"'I shall be with my father,' said little Mus-kin-gum. 'You may look for my mother and me in the stars, Grandpa. I have seen father there. Be sure and watch; we shall all be together,' and the child smiled as he kissed his grandparents, whose hearts were breaking.

"'My two brave ones,' said old Wa-chi-ta, 'if the rain comes to us it will be you who have sent it.'

"The tribes assembled from miles around. It was a hot, torrid night, although the moon shone brightly. All was silent as O-hi-o and little Mus-kin-gum came forth to the sacrifice. She wore her ceremonial costume; her long, black hair was flowing and held in by a beaded headband. She looked so beautiful as she marched up the mountain that people wept, but she walked proudly with her head erect, leading her child by the hand, and the little fellow also held his head upright and seemed without fear. Soon the ledge was reached. Looking down into the valley below they took their position.

"'Farewell,' said O-hi-o, 'I do this for the love I bear you, my people.'

"Then she kissed the boy many times and, reconsidering, she lifted him in her arms. The child put his face to hers and clung tightly about her neck. She whispered in his ear. He raised his head and called aloud: 'May the rain fall and may you all be happy.'

"Then holding her child close to her heart the brave woman stepped to the edge, closed her eyes, and leaped into the valley below,—the valley in which stood her wigwam."

Kate paused. The girls were hanging breathlessly on her words. Sallie Davis and Mattie Hastings were crying, while Edna Whitely and Mollie Long drew nearer.

"Oh, don't stop," gasped Patty Sands, "please go on, Miss Kate. I'm all excited."

Kate laughed.

"Do let me get my breath, girls. I had no idea it would take me so long."

"There fell no rain that night, but the people as they marched down into the valley thought of nothing but the sacrifice. Probably had it rained they would not have known it. They were silent, thinking with admiration of the wonderful act of heroism that they had just witnessed.

"The next day searching parties started out to seek the bodies of the mother and child, but not a trace could be found.

"'The Great Spirit has taken them in the flesh,' they said. 'Perhaps He is angry that we allowed it.'

"Everyone grew frightened. None seemed to care to speak. Suddenly a low peal of thunder was heard, then a louder one, after which came a flash of lightning.

"'A storm!" they cried, 'the sacrifice has not been in vain,' and they fell to their knees.

"It rained as it had never rained before. It fell in sheets. The cattle drank greedily and the water was plentiful. After the third day it grew lighter and the rain slacked. People ventured out of doors, and lo! the valley with the wigwam of Mus-kin-gum had disappeared. In its place, behold! a river. Up and down as far as eye could reach flowed the shining waters. A miracle had been performed, and the wise men came from miles around.

"'We will call the river O-hi-o,' they said, 'for it is the soul of her who has saved us.'

"And the river spread and grew larger. The braves explored and found that it was too long to measure. It would take days and days to find the end; in fact, they doubted that there could be an end.

"One morning they discovered a smaller river that emptied into the one they had named O-hi-o. That increased in length as well, but with their canoes they could paddle a hundred miles. They also noticed a peculiar thing about this smaller river. Whenever there came a thunder shower the river would rise and become covered with whitecaps, and rush madly down like a torrent until it seemed to fairly leap into the Ohio; and one wise man—the wisest of the tribe—said:

"'Behold, it is little Mus-kin-gum. Can you not see how the storm affects him? Was he not so in the flesh? Can you not see how he seeks his mother's bosom for shelter?'

"And so the mystery was explained. From the date of the appearance of the two rivers everything in that part of the country prospered. The cattle were second to none. The fruit was the fairest and most luscious fruit ever grown, while the crops—corn, buckwheat, oats, barley and wheat—could not be excelled."

("Today the fisheries are the finest and the Grand Reservoir is the largest body of artificial water in the world—equal in extent to all others in the state. It is well for you to know that," said Kate, interrupting the story).

"And whenever the Indians prayed to the Great Spirit they would thank him for having sent O-hi-o as a voluntary sacrifice; and each starlight night old Wa-chi-ta and his wife would search among the constellations for their three loved ones. Then they, too, passed into the Happy Hunting Grounds. But with many of the Western tribes the legend remains until today.

"For years to come the little Indian children would say to one another:

"'It's going to storm. Hear the thunder; see it lighten; let us go down and watch the little Mus-kin-gum get frightened and rush into his mother's arms.'"

"That is the end," said Kate.

"Oh! it is lovely," they all cried, "and we thank you so much."

"You see," she added, "now I am glad that I called this Camp Fire the 'Ohio.' That is our legend, and we can have a little copy made to annex to our book."

Then the Fire Maker came forward and extinguished the dying embers. Each girl arose and kissed the Guardian goodnight, and retired.



CHAPTER XXIV

ETHEL'S FIRST DAY IN CAMP

The girls slept soundly that night and in the morning were awakened by the singing of the birds.

"Oh! how lovely it seems to be here," thought Ethel, as she leaned on her elbow, "instead of being awakened by the toot of an automobile just to lie quietly and harken to the birds." She looked around.

The other cots were occupied by her Cousin Kate, Patty Sands, and Edna Whitely. Kate opened her eyes and sat up.

"Have you been awake long?" she asked sleepily.

"No, Kate, only a few moments. I've been listening to the birds. I thought Aunt Susan's home was peaceful, but even there one could hear the autos."

Kate arose, put on her slippers and wrapper, and sitting on the cot she began to unfasten her long braids.

"It is the most restful place I've ever known," she replied. "But, girls, we're late. Come Patty and Edna."

Patty Sands sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. Edna snuggled deeper into the depth of her pillow.

"Edna, don't go to sleep. There's the bugle now," and the clear notes of a bugle came floating into the tent.

"Oh!" said Edna sleepily, "that's Nora Casey blowing. I wish she'd stop; she has the strongest lungs I ever knew."

This morning the breakfast was eaten with a relish. They had oatmeal and cream, ham and eggs, creamed potatoes and coffee. Mollie Long had surprised them with some corn bread that was, as Nora expressed it, "some class."

Their cellar was beside a running brook near the tents. A little waterfall trickled down the rocks with a cheerful sound. Beside the stream was their refrigerator—a large deep hole that had been dug in the ground, and into this, placed in a tightly covered tin bucket, they put their butter, cream, eggs, and meat. It was as cold as ice. After the pail had been lowered a clean board covered the opening, and on this board they placed a large stone. But the farmer with whom Mr. Hollister had made arrangement, brought up daily from his place fresh meat, milk, and vegetables, and twice a week pot cheese and buttermilk; so the "Ohio Camp Fires" were in clover. Nothing they ate was stale and everything tasted delicious.

After breakfast was over, Ethel, Nora, and Mollie Long cleared the table, washed the dishes, and tidied up the tent.



CHAPTER XXV

ETHEL'S FIRST LESSON

"Girls," said Kate, after the morning's ceremonies had been performed, "today we will cook our dinner over a real camp fire. Our menu will consist of roasted potatoes, green peas, broiled steak, and a lettuce salad. Sallie Davis is going to make one of her delicious bread puddings, which she will bake in the oil stove, but the rest will be the 'real thing.'"

The girls were delighted.

"Ethel," said Edith Overman, "in August you shall taste our delicious roasted corn. You never ate anything so good in your life. When do you leave for home?"

"August thirtieth," replied the girl. "Do you stay up here until September?"

"Yes," replied Kate. "We leave about the fifth, but on account of you we are going home in August this year."

"Oh, how kind!" said Ethel.

Then Kate began:

"Now my little cousin, you have some work to do today. First, you must learn how to make knots,—the five different styles—but today it shall be a square knot only. You are to tie it five times in succession without hesitation. You are to read and be able to tell the chief cause of infant mortality in the summer, and to what extent it has been reduced in one American community. That means one city or town. This is your school and you must attend it before you can play. You must learn what to do in the following emergencies: Clothing on fire; person in deep water who can not swim, both in summer and through ice in winter; how to bandage and attend to an open cut; a frosted foot; what to do with a person who has fainted; how to use surgeon's plaster; you must commit to memory a poem of twenty-five lines or more, and you must learn about yourself—what every girl of your age needs to know. You are not to learn all of this in one day, but a little every day. Mollie and Nora, who are proficient in these things, will help teach you. Then you'll learn to cook, swim, and row a boat. We have a lovely lake about a mile from here, and there are boats and canoes to hire. All these, and various other useful things, you are to learn. I want you to be able to win an Elective Honor in some one of the seven crafts. You must wear your beads, but you must win them first. Next week we shall remove the roofs of our tents and sleep in the open. I wish you girls to get a month or two of it. That counts one honor."

Nora, Mollie and Ethel started in. Ethel quickly learned how to tie the knot. Then she began to study "first aid to the injured," and the girls taught her how to adjust a bandage and how to use the plaster.

"It's a shame that ye haven't a real broken bone to work on," laughed Nora.

"Well, that's a nice thing to say," replied Mollie; "suppose you go and cut yourself, Nora Casey, or break your leg."

After studying for a couple of hours the girls declared that Ethel was a promising pupil. She even learned a poem, "The Psalm of Life," by Longfellow.



CHAPTER XXVI

A LOSS AND A DINNER

"Oh! girls," exclaimed Ethel, "I must get my ring. I left it on the box where I washed dishes," and she ran to the kitchen tent, but there was no ring in sight. "I laid it down here and I emptied the water myself," she almost sobbed. "It was a beautiful ring—a diamond cluster. Grandmamma gave it to me. It was her engagement ring."

Kate now came in and they hunted. The girls looked where the water had been thrown but no sign. They swept the tent and searched thoroughly. Mollie Long went back to where Ethel stood half in tears and reported nothing doing.

"Who was with you in the tent?" she asked.

"No one but you and Nora," replied Ethel.

"You remember, Kate," said Ethel, "it was Grandmamma's engagement ring. I'd have lost anything I own rather than that."

"It's unfortunate," replied Kate, "but perhaps it may turn up."

Poor Ethel took her walk with Patty and Mollie but she was very quiet.

That noon she watched a dinner cooked in the open. Two perpendicular stakes with forked ends had been driven in the ground, while lying horizontally across them was another upon which to hang one or more kettles. Each kettle had an iron hook to place on the cross stake, and from them hung the kettles. A roaring fire had been made. The potatoes were laid in the hot ashes and covered. In one kettle the peas were put. Ethel and Mollie had shelled until their fingers ached.

"Now, girls," said Kate, "someone time those peas. They must not cook longer than three-quarters of an hour, and they must not be covered."

When the salad had been prepared, the bread and butter spread, and the water pitchers filled from the brook it was time to cook the steak.

Four of the girls took forks made from tree branches, placed the steak upon them, and started in. Mollie and Nora in the meanwhile, after draining off nearly all of the water, had put some salt and a little sugar in the peas, adding at the last a large piece of butter, and had placed them in their kettle which stood near the potatoes.

The steak when finished was laid on a large platter and covered plentifully with butter. Then each girl took and opened her potato, and what a potato it was!—so unlike those cooked in an oven. The peas were served in saucers, and the sight of the steak covered with gravy—hot and juicy—made them hungry.

Each sat on the ground with her plate on her lap, and her saucer and glass beside her. They ate up every vestige of food.

"Goodnight!" said Nora. "Shure a dog would starve in this crowd."

After an appetizing salad dressed with a suspicion of garlic and a fine French dressing, came the bread pudding made by Sallie Davis. It was filled with raisins and each girl passed her plate twice.

"Ethel, what do you think of our Camp Fire dinner?" asked Kate.

"It is simply fine," replied the girl. "I have never tasted one half so good."

"Poor Ethel, she is unhappy over her ring," said Edna, "and I don't blame her. Cheer up! it may be found yet," she added.

But Ethel was unhappy, not for the loss of the ring, but because it had belonged to old Mrs. Hollister.

"I never should have brought it," she said to Kate. "I should have left it with Aunt Susan. I know it was right on the box when I left the tent, and it's so unpleasant," she confided to Kate. "One suspects everyone."

"Yes, that's the unfortunate part of it," replied her cousin. "The innocent suffer for the guilty; that is, if it has been taken by anyone, but I have an idea that it may have been thrown out with the water."

Ethel studied hard every day. She learned rapidly and one night she received her first bead. She had learned how to row a boat and she rowed well. In five days she had rowed twenty miles, which entitled her to one honor. Before the next two weeks she had learned how to swim; and she swam one mile in five days. The rule was to swim one mile in six days, but she went one better; so at one of the council fires she received her two beads. As her honors came under "health craft" her beads were red.

Her ceremonial gown had been made for some time. She had worked on it during rainy days, and when she had finished behold! it was perfect.

"Why, you're entitled to another honor. This comes under 'hand craft,'" said Patty.

So now she had won three—two red beads and one of green.

"That's good work," ejaculated Nora Casey. "She'll outstrip us all."

Of course each girl won daily. Some had strings nearly half a yard long. At every council fire the Guardian would distribute them to the girls, but Sallie Davis had the most beads. She was clever and won many for cooking.

About the middle of July there came another set of Camp Fires. They occupied the woods about half a mile away. It seemed that the Guardian—a Miss Andrews—was a schoolmate of Kate Hollister's. They were called the "Columbus Camp Fires." The girls were friendly and together they had great sport.



CHAPTER XXVII

A DISCOVERY

One morning Patty and Ethel started for a walk. They were to climb a small mountain. On their way they came across a pocket handkerchief. It was a girl's handkerchief, and on it was the initial "H."

"This isn't Cousin's Kate's I know," said Ethel. "She carried one certain kind with a tiny 'H' worked in the corner. This looks like a cheap one that might be purchased for a dime. Whose can it be? Are there any 'H's' in the Columbus Camp Fires?"

They recalled every name—not an "H."

"Then as it isn't Kate's nor mine it must belong to Mattie Hastings."

"Yes," replied Patty. "She often walks up here alone."

"I wish I could get over my feeling of dislike for that girl," said Ethel, "but I can not. It grows on me. I shall be glad to go home to get rid of looking at her. I can never like Nora Casey either, although I have tried very hard. But I positively shrink from that girl. I don't trust her."

"I feel the same, and so do all the girls," replied Patty, "but she seems to have gotten around Miss Hollister. She is invariably hanging on her."

"Cousin Kate is so kind and good-hearted," said Ethel. "She's always ready to make the best of people, but I feel like pulling Mattie Hastings away when I see her around here."

"Look—quick! speak of angels—that was she looking out through those trees," exclaimed Patty. "Now I wonder what she is doing up here and alone. My! but it's warm in the sun, isn't it?" and Patty opened the neck of her waist and removed her hat. "Let's call and see if she answers us."

So Patty Sands called loudly:

"Mattie Hastings—Mattie—we have seen you—don't hide!"

Someone started to run through the brush. They heard a fall and a piercing shriek.

"She's tripped," said Ethel. "Let's go and see."

Quickly they picked their way over fallen trees and dead leaves until they came to the prostrate body of Mattie whom they so disliked.

"What have you done?" asked Patty. "Have you hurt yourself?"

No answer.

"She's fainted!" ejaculated Ethel. "She's been walking in the sun and exposed to great heat. It's heat exhaustion. See, her face is pale and she isn't entirely unconscious as in a sunstroke. First we must loosen her clothing and let her lie down quietly. I wonder if there is any water about."

"Yes," said Patty, "we passed a watering trough on the road."

While Ethel unbuttoned the girl's waist, Patty ran for water.

"It's lucky I have my drinking cup with me," she called. "I have a long head. I never take a walk without it."

Ethel made no reply. She unhooked the girl's corset. Then when Patty returned, together they lifted her to a shady place. Ethel's face was pale.

"What is the matter?" asked Patty. "You look as though you had seen a ghost."

Ethel pointed to a chain on Mattie's neck. It was a small silver chain, and suspended from it were two diamond rings. One was the small cluster lost by Ethel, while the other was a solitaire. Patty gasped and caught Ethel by the arm.

"That's your ring."

Ethel nodded.

"And the other belongs to Nora Casey. She lost it a few days ago. She didn't want to make a fuss about it on account of you having lost yours, but I think she suspected this girl and determined to get it before she left camp. Isn't it awful?" and Patty shook her head. "You'd better take the chain off before she comes to."

Ethel made no reply but lifted Mattie's head and put the drinking cup to her lips. After a moment the girl took a swallow, then another, until she had taken it all.

"Don't give her any more now," said Ethel. "'First Aid' says, 'sip slowly in heat prostrations and give stimulants,' but we have none."

"Take them off, Ethel," said Patty, "she might get up and run." But Ethel only looked.

Suddenly Mattie Hastings opened her eyes, gazed at the two girls, and at her shirt waist beside her; then she raised herself and put her hand to her neck. A scarlet flame surged across her face.

"You've had a sort of fainting spell," said Ethel. "You fell, and the heat and all made you unconscious for a while. Why did you run from us when we called?"

With her hands upon her chain the girl looked like a frightened animal. Something stirred Ethel's pity.

"Don't be frightened," she said, "just tell us all."

Whereupon Mattie Hastings burst into tears.

"First hand me my ring," said Ethel, "and then tell us everything."

The girl tried to unfasten the chain.

"Shall I?" asked Ethel.

Mattie nodded. Then Ethel took the ring.

"To whom does this belong?" she asked.

"Nora," faltered the girl. "Keep it please; I shall never go back. I shall kill myself," she sobbed.

"That's silly," broke in practical Patty.

"Your father—Judge Sands—he will sentence me to prison," she sobbed, "and I did it for Mollie. She's my sister. Her spine is broken and the doctor said she needed food—good nourishing food. She's only eleven, and he told father that with care she might outgrow it, especially if she could get in some Institution for Cripples, where she could have good attention," and the girl threw herself on her face and sobbed brokenly.

"Now, see here," said Ethel, sitting down beside her and lefting her up, while Patty and she supported her back.

"You tell us everything; don't keep even a tiny bit back."

"Yes," broke in Patty, "we're Camp Fire Girls and we must 'Give Service.' Perhaps we can help you if you'll confide in us."

"Before God I will; and I'll tell you all," said Mattie.



CHAPTER XXVIII

MATTIE'S STORY

"My father is a good man. He is kind, hard-working, and gives all of his wages to Mother. Mother has an idea that I am above my associates. She is ambitious for me to go with the rich girls—the girls who have position."

Ethel's heart bounded. Was not her own mother the same?

"I worked in McAllister's store. I earned six dollars a week. Three of it I paid Mother for board. The other three, with what Father gave me, bought my clothes; but even with that I could not dress well enough to go with the girls as she wished me to.

"Her idea was for me to go to church and Sunday School and meet them that way. Then poor little Mollie was knocked down by an automobile and she has never left her bed. They were a party of joy riders, and oh! I hate to confess it, but I've promised—my mother was one of them. She had a cousin who was a chauffeur and he asked her to go. No one but I knew that she was of the party, for they were so drunk they never saw that she left them, and to this day no one knows that it was her cousin's auto that knocked Mollie down, for he escaped. Mother came home after Mollie had been taken to the hospital, and at that time we all thought that she had been out spending the evening. When she found that Mollie was injured for life she began to take morphine. I alone know her secret; she never knew that she told it. For God's sake don't betray me. Every-penny that Father gave her she spent for that drug, and he thinking that Mollie had the benefit of it.

"At last I couldn't stand it. I couldn't see my little sister die for the want of proper food, nor could I tell Father, and give my own mother away, for outside of her ambition for me she had been a good mother. Then Father grew ill and was laid up with rheumatism. I refused to give Mother the three dollars for board, but I kept it for expenses. When she demanded, I told her what I knew and threatened to expose her.

"Father grew better and was able to work again, but poor Mollie failed daily. I laid awake night after night. I prayed—for I was a good girl once—for a way to be shown me whereby I could make more than six dollars a week.

"Then in Sunday School I met Miss Hollister. I had heard of these Camp Fire Girls and how many fine things a girl could learn, so that in time she could earn good money. I consulted with Father and he advised me to join; and Mother was delighted, for she saw visions of my being intimate with the 'swell' girls."

Here Mattie put her hands on her breast and Ethel ran to the trough for more water.

"Before we came up here," she continued, "I found a doctor who upon seeing Mollie said that for one hundred and fifty dollars he could put her in a Home where she would have attention and treatment. She could wear braces, and perhaps in time she might grow to be strong and well. But how was I to get it? Father and I together could hardly pay for our food.

"One afternoon just before the store closed a lady dropped her purse. I put my foot over it and stood until she had gone off in her auto. Then when no one was looking I picked it up, put it in my bosom, and went home. In the purse I found forty dollars.

"That was the beginning. After that it came so easy, and Mollie enjoyed the fruit that I brought her. But thirty-five dollars of the money I put in the bank. I took little things from the store and sold them. I pretended that they had been given to me.

"Then I came up here. Oh! I expected to end in prison. I knew that it couldn't go on forever. But I took a chance. I had now nearly seventy-five dollars. One hundred and fifty, or say two hundred, would save Mollie. I kept on. I took a locket from Edith Overman. She's never missed it. It has a large diamond in the center. She's rich and careless. I took that ring from Nora. I've often thought that Nora suspected me, but she's never given me away. I've taken money from each one of you girls. The only one whom I've not robbed is Miss Kate—God bless her. I wouldn't take a handkerchief from her, she's been so kind to me. The rest have never liked me. You remember since we came here the time I went home and spent two days. Well, I went in town and deposited my money and saw that Mollie had some comforts in way of food and books. Then when I came back I began taking the jewelry. I have now over a hundred dollars in the bank. I had come up here today to find a safe place in some tree where until we went back I could put the two rings and locket, as I feared that they might be seen on my neck. When you called and said, 'We've seen you; don't hide,' I thought that you had discovered that I was a thief and I started to run and fell over the tree trunk. I had been pretty warm while walking up the hill and I guess you were correct,—it was the heat. That's all," she moaned wearily. "You may give me up. I knew the time would come, but I had hoped to have had Mollie in a Home before I was taken," and the girl lay back on the ground shaking with sobs.

Ethel and Patty looked at each other.

"Now see here," said Patty Sands, "Ethel and I are not monsters to eat you up, are we, Ethel?"

"No," replied the girl, "Mattie, I think we may be able to help Mollie."

Mattie sat up.

"What?" she gasped.

"Yes," replied Ethel. "You've done this for her. Now we are not going to betray you, and we are going to help you; but first, you must give back everything that you have taken. Do you remember the name of the lady from whom you took the purse?"

"Yes," replied Mattie. "I have the purse with her card in it."

"Very well; return that by mail. Say if you wish that you found it and regret not sending it before. You needn't sign your name. Then take Nora's ring and put it in her suitcase, after which put Edith's chain in hers. Can you remember the different amounts of money that you have taken from us girls?"

"I took"—and she faltered—"five from you and five from Patty."

"Well, don't try to think now, but go by yourself and if possible remember what you took from each girl and replace it as you are going to replace the jewelry. Whatever you took from the store and sold is a harder matter and you can't recover the goods."

"No," said Mattie.

"How much did you get for them?" asked Patty.

"About twelve dollars," replied the girl.

"You give that to me," said Patty. "Mr. McAllister is a great friend of Father's. I will give Father the money and tell him to return it,—that it's from a client—an old employee—who to save a human life and under great temptation took the things, and that she wishes to make restitution. He'll never suspect you, nor will he question Father, for Father has rendered him too many services."

Mattie grasped her by the hand.

"Oh! you are too good to me, Miss Sands. However can I pay you and Miss Ethel?"

"Call me Ethel," said the girl.

"Yes, and me Patty. You are one of us and we are all sisters."

"And now," continued Ethel, "my Aunt Susan, who lives in Akron, is a philanthropist. I've heard her tell of a Cripple's Home there. If your sister is unable to pay she can get her in free. That doctor may slip some of that money he speaks of into his own pocket, and if your sister is under Aunt Susan's wing she'll see that she gets everything she needs, and she'll have the best of care. You can run down every week or so and see her. I'm sure Aunt Susan would make you welcome over night."

Mattie Hastings fell on the ground at the feet of the two girls.

"Oh, my God!" she said, "Are you in earnest?" and she kissed their hands. "Can it be possible that there is about to be made a way for poor Mollie? Are my prayers to be answered?" and she sobbed while the two girls held her in their arms.

"Come on now," said Ethel, "let's go home. You're all tired out. We'll put you to bed. Don't worry, Mattie," she whispered, "we'll attend to everything."



CHAPTER XXIX

MATTIE STARTS AFRESH

Everything was returned as the girls had planned. Mattie went into town, drew out her money, put the forty dollars in the purse and sent it to its owner, as they had suggested.

"Oh, my darling!" she said to Mollie, as she hugged her, "I have great news for you. Come, Mother, and listen."

Then holding each by the hand she related Ethel's proposal.

Mrs. Hastings wept tears of joy while little Mollie laughed.

"Are you sure she'll keep her word?" asked Mrs. Hastings.

"As sure as there's a God in heaven. She's an angel," replied Mattie. "They all are. Oh! Mother, I never knew that there could be such kindness in the world."

Mattie returned, and Ethel and Patty replaced all of the stolen money in the girls' purses save the twelve that was to be given to Judge Sands for McAllister. The jewelry was more difficult, for there was danger of it rolling out of the bags, so Patty suggested putting the ring in a small box and slipping it in Nora's suitcase, and doing the same with the locket belonging to Edith Overman.

The next morning appeared Nora with the ring on her finger, but with never a word. Then rushed out Edith Overman.

"Do you know, I have found my locket and chain. I was awfully worried for I thought I had lost it."

The following day came a reply to Ethel's letter from Aunt Susan. This was the extract pertaining to the Home:

"Yes, my dear, I can get the little girl in the Cripples' School free—not 'Home.' In this place she'll have the best of medical attendance. I am one of the managers. She will be taught to sew and make lovely things besides having good nourishing food every day. Her sister is welcome to stay with us whenever she cares to come. The little girl will probably come out cured, and it will not cost her a penny. Even her clothes will be furnished. Let me know when to expect them. I enclose your mother's letter."

Mattie cried with joy.

"What is it?" the girls asked, and she told them.

Judge Sands had seen Mr. McAllister who took the money without a comment save:

"Well, Judge, when a thing happens like this it sort of restores one's faith in human nature, doesn't it?"

And Mattie was a happy girl.

"Really," said Ethel to her cousin and Patty, "Mattie's eyes have grown wider apart."

"No, it's because you like her and she seems different to you."

Mrs. Hollister wrote: "My dearest girl:

"I hope you have made only desirable acquaintances and that you will forget the Camp Fire Girls, at least this winter. You will be seventeen soon and I shall give you a debutante's party. I have saved considerable money during your absence."

Ethel didn't answer the letter at once.

One day came up the hill the buckboard holding three men. The girls saw it from a distance, and there was some excitement. As it drew nearer three shouts went up. There was Tom Harper, Uncle John, and Judge Sands.

Ethel almost wept on Tom's shoulder, and she was well hugged by Uncle John.

That was the day that they had their great Camp Fire dinner—when they soaked the corn for an hour in water before roasting it. Then tying a string to each ear they laid it in the glowing fire and ate it with melted butter and salt. The Judge and Uncle John ate three ears apiece, besides the potatoes, chicken, and steamed berry pudding made by Patty, his daughter.

"Say, John and Tom," he said, "we'd better come up here and board. No wonder these girls like to get away from town."

And Mattie was introduced to the Judge by Patty.

"Papa," she said, "this is Mattie Hastings, and when I was ill she sat up the entire night taking care of me and putting fresh flax-seed poultices on my chest."

And the Judge thanked her so sincerely that she nearly burst into tears.

"And your father?" he asked, "how is he? I need a man just like him in my office. I've met him, and Miss Mattie, there's one thing I've always liked about him,—he has a face that anyone could trust. I shall go and see him on my return."

Then Mattie was not afraid to weep with joy as she clasped the Judge's hand and thanked him sincerely.

"Well, girls," said Uncle John, "we'll be looking for you next week—hey?"

"Yes," replied Kate, "and, Father, I'd like to have Aunt Susan come up before we leave. She'd enjoy it."

"Oh! yes," fairly shouted Ethel. "Do bring her, Tom."



CHAPTER XXX

AUNT SUSAN COMES

So the day Aunt Susan came, everyone was on the qui vive, and a warmer welcome was never extended to an old lady. She was shown everything. She had a real Camp Fire dinner and enjoyed it.

She took Mattie one side and told her of the wonderful improvement in little Mollie, which made Mattie's heart beat high with joy.

When she was introduced to Honora the girl made such quaint remarks that Aunt Susan laughed merrily.

"Isn't it funny?" said Ethel; "that's the only girl in Camp that I don't care for."

"Ethel," replied her aunt, "perhaps, you don't know her as she really is."

"Perhaps," responded Ethel slowly, thinking of Mattie.

The evening that Aunt Susan stayed, Ethel was advanced from a Wood Gatherer to a Fire Maker. She stood up in her ceremonial dress with her pretty hair hanging, and bound with a band of beads called her "ceremonial band," and she repeated the Fire Maker's song.

New honors were awarded. They had songs and toasts, one of which was "Aunt Susan," after which the girls repeated in unison:

"Burn, fire, burn; flicker, flicker, flame, etc."

Then, extinguishing the fire, they retired for the night.

The next morning the Camp broke up. Ethel bade them all an affectionate farewell. She even kissed Honora. There seemed to be a spirit of good will among all of the girls.

"Be sure and come back next summer, Ethel," was heard on every side.

And Mattie, taking her apart from the rest, said:

"You have saved me from a fate worse than death. I was going the downward path, and you and Patty lifted me out of the mud. I shall pray for you every night. Don't forget me."

"No, I shall not," replied Ethel, kissing her affectionately, "and you promise to go and see little Mollie and write me all about her, won't you?"



CHAPTER XXXI

BACK TO AUNT SUSAN'S

After spending the night at Uncle John's, Aunt Susan and Ethel left for Akron.

"Oh! what a lovely summer I've had," said Ethel, "and how much I've learned being a Camp Fire Girl; and I owe it all to you, Aunt Susan."

The next week Mr. Hollister came to take the girl home—and how he had missed her!

They spent the day with Uncle John. He and her father were like boys again.

"You must come here next year, Archibald," said John, "and go up to Camp and see the way these girls keep house. It's a revelation. What the women are coming to! I don't believe there'll be any room on earth for us men after a while."

Ethel's eyes were blinded with tears as she kissed her dear ones goodbye, and Mattie Hastings with Patty Sands came way to Akron to see her off, Mattie bringing the loveliest pin-cushion made for her by her sister Mollie.

One night Ethel and Mrs. Hollister had a serious talk. Grandmother made Archibald go and listen at the door, as Bella's voice could be heard throughout the house.

When Ethel left her mother she went directly up to her room, but Mrs. Hollister said to Grandmother:

"This is your work and your sister's as well. Ethel is a changed girl and refused to obey me. She's going to take up low settlement work and belong to that Camp Fire business this winter, and she almost refuses to go into society at all. But for the fact that some of our best girls are Camp Fires I should positively forbid it. She is not yet of age, and I still have some authority over her, after all my slaving for her and sacrifices. Now she openly defies me."

"No, Mamma," cried Ethel, coming down stairs and putting her arm around her mother, "I only object to sailing under false colors. All of our life has been sham—sham—and make believe, and I can not see Papa growing older and more bent every day, when he should be young looking and happy. And I know that it's worry over getting the money for me that I may make a show for people to think me wealthy. And when Aunt Susan came here you told everyone that I was to be her heiress. Why, Mamma, she is poorer than we are. Every penny of her money was lost four years ago, and Tom Harper—her adopted son—supports her. Then there's dear Uncle John. He's nearly five years older than Papa and he looks ten years younger. Why? Because he has nothing to worry him. And when I see the lines and wrinkles coming into your pretty face I think it's all for me, and I've decided to give it up. I shall still go out with the friends who care for me, but they must know me as I am; and next summer I want you to come with me to Camp. You are so clever and can teach the girls so much about sewing and dressmaking.

"Mamma dear, let's turn over a new leaf. Let's give up all sham and be happy. Then we can tell who are our true friends and they'll be all we need."

Here Ethel put her arms around her mother who at once burst into tears, sobbing:

"And I wanted you to make a g-good m-match."

"Never mind," laughed Ethel. "Who knows? I may marry better than ever. Cheer up, Mamma dear," and from that hour the mother and daughter changed places.

And Grandmother Hollister whispered to her son:

"Behold! a miracle."



* * * * * *



[Transcriber's Note: The following nine pages were bound with "How Ethel Hollister Became a Campfire Girl." They constitute a separate story.]



THE FLOWERS' WORK

"See, mother! I've finished my bouquet. Isn't it beautiful? More so, I think, than those made by the florist which he asked two dollars for, and this has cost me but seventy-five cents."

"Yes, yes, it is very pretty. But, dear me, child, I cannot help thinking how illy we can spare so much for such a very useless thing. Almost as much as you can make in a day it has cost."

"Don't say useless, mother. It will express to Edward our appreciation of his exertions and their result, and our regards. How he has struggled to obtain a profession! I only wish I could cover the platform with bouquets, baskets and wreaths tonight, when he receives his diploma."

"Well, well; if it will do any good, I shall not mind the expense. But, child, he will know it is from you, and men don't care for such things coming from home folks. Now, if it was from any other young lady, I expect he'd be mightily pleased."

"Oh, mother, I don't think so. Edward will think as much of it, coming from his sister-in-law, as from any other girl. And it will please Kate, too. If we do not think enough of him to send him bouquets, who else could? Rest easy, mother, dear; I feel quite sure my bouquet will do much good," answered Annie, putting her bouquet in a glass of water.

She left the room to make her simple toilet for the evening.

Mrs. Grey had been widowed when her two little girls were in their infancy. It had been a hard struggle for the mother to raise her children. Constant toil, privation and anxiety had worn heavily on her naturally delicate constitution, until she had become a confirmed invalid. But there was no longer a necessity for her toiling. Katy, the elder daughter, was married; and Annie, a loving, devoted girl, could now return the mother's long and loving care. By her needle she obtained a support for herself and mother.

Katy's husband held a position under the government, receiving a small compensation, only sufficient for the necessities of the present, and of very uncertain continuance. He was ambitious of doing better than this for himself, as well as his family. So he employed every spare hour in studying medicine, and it was the night that he was to receive his diploma that my little story begins.

The exercises of the evening were concluded. Edward Roberts came down the aisle to where his wife and Annie were seated, bearing his flowers—an elegant basket, tastefully arranged, and a beautiful bouquet. But it needed only a quick glance for Annie to see it was not her bouquet. Although the flowers were fragrant and rare, they were not so carefully selected or well chosen. Hers expressed not alone her affection and appreciation, but his energy, perseverance and success.

"Why, where is my bouquet? I do not see it," asked Annie, a look of disappointment on her usually bright face.

"Yours? I do not know. Did you send me one?" returned her brother-in-law.

"Indeed I did. And such a beauty, too! It is too bad! I suppose it is the result of the stupidity of the young man in whose hands I placed it. I told him plain enough it was for you, and your name, with mine, was on the card," answered Annie, really very much provoked.

"Well, do not fret, little sister; I am just as much obliged; and perchance some poor fellow not so fortunate as I may have received it," answered Edward Roberts.

"Don't, for pity's sake, let mother know of the mistake, or whatever it is, that has robbed you of your bouquet. She will fret dreadfully about it," said Annie.

All that night, until she was lost in sleep, did she constantly repeat:

"I wonder who has got it?"

She had failed to observe on the list of graduates the name of Edgar Roberts, from Ohio, or she might have had an idea into whose hands her bouquet had fallen. Her brother Edward, immediately on hearing Annie's exclamation, thought how the mistake had occurred, and was really glad that it was as it was; for the young man whose name was so nearly like his own was a stranger in the city, and Edward had noticed his receiving one bouquet only, which of course was the missing one, and Annie's.

Edgar Roberts sat in his room that night, after his return from the distribution of diplomas, holding in his hand Annie's bouquet, and on the table beside him was a floral dictionary. An expression of gratification was on his pleasant face, and, as again and again his eyes turned from the flowers to seek their interpreter, his lips were wreathed with smiles, and he murmured low:

"Annie Grey! Sweet Annie Grey! I never dreamed of any one in this place knowing or caring enough for me to send such a tribute. How carefully these flowers are chosen! What a charming, appreciative little girl she is! Pretty, I know, of course. I wonder how she came to send me this? How shall I find her? Find her I must, and know her."

And Edgar Roberts fell asleep to dream of Annie Grey, and awoke in the morning whispering the last words of the night before:

"Sweet Annie Grey!"

During the day he found it quite impossible to fix his mind on his work; mind and heart were both occupied with thoughts of Annie Grey. And so it continued to be until Edgar Roberts was really in love with a girl he knew not, nor had ever seen. To find her was his fixed determination. But how delicately he must go about it. He could not make inquiry among his gentlemen acquaintances without speculations arising, and a name sacred to him then, passed from one to another, lightly spoken, perhaps. Then he bethought himself of the city directory; he would consult that. And so doing he found Greys innumerable—some in elegant, spacious dwellings, some in the business thoroughfares of the place. The young ladies of the first mentioned, he thought, living in fashionable life, surrounded by many admirers, would scarcely think of bestowing any token of regard or appreciation on a poor unknown student. The next would have but little time to devote to such things; and time and thought were both spent in the arrangement of his bouquet. Among the long list of Greys he found one that attracted him more than all the others—a widow, living in a quiet part of the city, quite near his daily route. So he sought and found the place and exact number. Fortune favored him. Standing at the door of a neat little frame cottage he beheld a young girl talking with two little children. She was not the blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of his dreams, but a sweet, earnest dove-eyed darling. And what care he, whether her eyes were blue or brown, if her name were only Annie? Oh, how could he find out that?

She was bidding the little ones "goodbye." They were off from her, on the sidewalk, when the elder child—a bright, laughing boy of five—sang out, kissing his little dimpled hand:

"Good-bye, Annie, darling!"

Edgar Roberts felt as if he would like to clasp the little fellow to the heart he had relieved of all anxiety. No longer a doubt was in his mind. He had found his Annie Grey.

From that afternoon, twice every day he passed the cottage of the widow Grey, frequently seeing sweet Annie. This, however, was his only reward. She never seemed at all conscious of his presence. Often her eyes would glance carelessly toward him. Oftener they were never raised from her work. Sewing by the window, she always was.

What next? How to proceed, on his fixed determination of winning her, if possible?

Another bright thought. He felt pretty sure she attended church somewhere; perhaps had a class in the Sabbath school. So the next Sunday morning, at an early hour, he was commanding a view of Annie's home. When the school bells commenced to ring, he grew very anxious. A few moments, and the door opened and the object of his thoughts stepped forth. How beautiful she looked in her pretty white suit! Now Edgar felt his cause was in the ascendancy. Some distance behind, and on the other side of the street, he followed, ever keeping her in view until he saw her enter a not far distant church. Every Sunday after found him an attentive listener to the Rev. Mr. Ashton, who soon became aware of the presence of the young gentleman so regularly, and apparently so much interested in the services. So the good man sought an opportunity to speak to Edgar, and urge his accepting a charge in the Sabbath school. We can imagine Edgar needed no great urging on that subject; so, frequently, he stood near his Annie. In the library, while selecting books for their pupils, once or twice they had met, and he had handed to her the volume for which her hand was raised. Of course a smile and bow of acknowledgment and thanks rewarded him.

Edgar was growing happier, and more confident of final success every week, when an event came which promised a speedy removal of all difficulty in his path. The school was going to have a picnic. Then and there he would certainly have an introduction to Annie, and after spending a whole day with her, he would accompany her home and win the privilege of calling often.

The day of the picnic dawned brightly, and the happy party gathered on the deck of the steamer. The first person who met Edgar Roberts' eye was his fellow-student, Edward Roberts. Standing beside him were two ladies and some children. When Edgar hastened up to speak to his friend, the ladies turned, and Edward presented:

"My wife; my sister, Miss Grey."

Edgar Roberts could scarcely suppress an exclamation of joy and surprise. His looks fully expressed how delighted he was.

Three months had he been striving for this, which, if he had only known it, could have been obtained so easily through his friend and her brother. But what was so difficult to win was the more highly prized. What a happy day it was!

Annie was all he had believed her—charming in every way. Edgar made a confidant of his friend; told him what Edward well knew before, but was wise enough not to explain the mistake—of his hopes and fears; and won from the prudent brother the promise to help him all he could.

Accompanying Annie home that evening, and gaining her permission for him to call again, Edgar lost no time in doing so, and often repeated the call.

Perhaps Annie thought him very fast in his wooing, and precipitate in declaring his love, when, after only a fortnight visiting her, he said:

"Annie, do you like me well enough, and trust in me sufficiently, to allow me to ask your mother to call me her son?"

Either so happy or so surprised was Annie, that she could not speak just then. But roses crowded over her fair face, and she did not try to withdraw the hand he had clasped.

"Say, Annie, love," he whispered. She raised her eyes to his with such a strange, surprised look in them, that he laughed and said:

"You think I am very hasty, Annie. You don't know how long I've loved you, and have waited for this hour."

"Long!—two weeks," she said.

"Why, Annie, darling, it is over three months since I've been able to think of anything save Annie Grey—ever since the night I received my diploma, and your sweet, encouraging bouquet, since that night I've known and loved you. And how I've worked for this hour!"

And then he told her how it was. And when he had finished, she looked at him, her eyes dancing merrily, and though she tried hard to keep the little rosebud of a mouth demurely shut, it was no use—it would open and let escape a rippling laugh, as she said:

"And this is the work my bouquet went about, is it? This is the good it has done me—" She hesitated; the roses deepened their color as she continued "And you—"

"Yes, Annie, it has done much good to me, and I hope to you too."

"But, Edgar—" it was the first time she had called him thus, and how happy it made him—"I must tell you the truth—I never sent you a bouquet!"

"No! oh, do not say so. Can there be another such Annie Grey?"

"No; I am the one who sent the bouquet; but, Edgar, you received it through a mistake. It was intended for my brother-in-law, Edward!"

"Stop, Annie, a moment—Are you sorry that mistake was made? Do you regret it?" said Edgar, his voice filled with emotion.

"No indeed. I am very glad you received it instead," Annie ingenuously replied; adding quickly, "But, please, do not tell Edward I said so."

"No, no; I will not tell him that you care a little more for Edgar than Edward. Is that it? May I think so, Annie?"

She nodded her head, and he caught her to his heart, whispering:

"Mine at last. My Annie, darling! What a blessed mistake it was! May I go to your mother, Annie?"

"Yes; and I'll go with you, Edgar, and hear if she will admit those flowers did any good. She thought it a useless expenditure."

The widow Grey had become very much attached to the kind, attentive young man, and when he came with Annie, and asked her blessing on their love, she gave it willingly; and after hearing all about the way it happened, she said:

"Never did flowers such a good work before. They carried Edgar to church, made a Christian of him, and won for Annie a good, devoted husband, and for me an affectionate son."

THE END