CHAPTER VII

AWARDING THE PRIZES

The boat race between the four girls and six men at the camping grounds, which had begun as a joke, was really to take place.

The boys had desired to do something for the entertainment of their friends on the houseboat at Old Point Comfort. So the day of the boat race was to be turned into a long day of feasting and amusement.

The summer camp was about to break up, and the young men who had been members of it were to return to their homes to get ready for the opening of college. The picnic at the camp was to be their swan song. The camp was composed of fourteen young men and two professors from Columbia University. Professor Gordon looked after the athletics and Professor Gamage the general management of the camp. The men lived in three small, portable houses, which were set up along the shores of Oyster Sound, a little stretch of quiet water between the mainland and a small island.

Tom Curtis and Alfred Thornton, insisting that they be allowed to act as masters of ceremony for the day's amusements, had arranged a regular programme for their guests.

Madge requested Tom Curtis to let their boat race take place first. She and Phyllis were nervous and wished to have the race over in order that they might be free to enjoy the day's pleasures. But, for once in their acquaintance, Tom was obdurate and would not agree either to Madge's entreaties or to her commands. He had arranged his programme and would make no changes in it, he declared stubbornly.

The guests were to arrive at the camp and eat their luncheon; an hour later the young men were to give an exhibition of wrestling and racing. As a last feature of the day the famous race was to take place between the boys and girls. The race was supposed to be rowed "just for fun," but Mrs. Curtis had secretly provided two silver cups. One was to be presented to the victors, the other was to be awarded to whichever of the two pairs of girls outrowed the other.

Madge and Phyllis had no particularly pretty suits to wear in the coming race. The sailor suits they had worn on their first houseboat excursion were now quite shabby, but neither of them felt that they could afford to buy new ones. Two days before the boat race Miss Jenny Ann came to the rescue. She made two beautiful new blouses of white flannel with wide collars and cuffs of pale blue. Upon the right sleeve of each blouse Eleanor embroidered in a shade of blue that exactly matched their collars and cuffs the mysterious letters, M.M.M., which stood for "Mates of the Merry Maid." These blouses worn with their dark blue serge skirts made very attractive rowing costumes.

The time appointed for the boat race was at noon on Saturday. The boys had worked manfully and the grounds looked as though they had been arranged for a Fourth of July picnic.

When the houseboat party arrived they were greeted with great cordiality by the young men of the camp. Flora Harris and Alice Paine did not put in an appearance until within five minutes of the starting time of the race. Both young women were attired in expensive boating costumes of heavy cream-colored pongee. They wore white silk stockings and white buckskin shoes. Their only touches of color were the scarfs of pale green crepe de chine which were passed under their sailor collars, and tied in a sailor knot at the open necks of their blouses.

Madge could not help feeling a tiny pang of envy as she gazed at her beautifully dressed rivals. It was only for a moment, however. She turned to Tom Curtis, who had hardly left her side since her arrival, and said, "I have one last particular favor to ask. Will you ask your crew to come and stand in a line before me?"

"Certainly," agreed Tom wonderingly. The next instant the six men stood in a line before her. They were Tom Curtis and Alfred Thornton, who were to pull together, Harry Sears and a Maryland boy, named George Robinson, and two brothers, Peter and John Simrall. The six youths had on their rowing costumes, with their sweaters over them. They looked like a row of good-natured giants as they smiled cheerfully down on Madge.

Phyllis, Eleanor and Lillian were standing just behind her. Flora Harris and her cousin, Alice Paine, were not far away. Flora Harris and Madge had barely spoken to each other all day. Before she had an opportunity to explain what she wished of the young men, Flora whispered to her cousin, so audibly that not only Madge but her three friends heard "I suppose Miss Morton has arranged this tableau to make herself conspicuous, as usual."

Madge flushed hotly. A quick reply sprang to her lips. The three girls cast indignant glances at Flora. Madge shook her head slightly. She meant that they were to remain silent. She had determined not to lose her temper again with Flora Harris, no matter what the other girl said or did, and she did not wish her friends to fight her battles. Then she turned to the boys, who stood in an expectant row.

"Gentlemen," she began solemnly, not a sign of laughter on her usually merry face, "before we begin our boat race, you will have to make us a solemn promise." She gazed searchingly at the six oarsmen. "You must promise us that you will play fair this afternoon in our rowing contest."

"Why, Madge Morton!" exclaimed Tom, "what do you mean? Do you take us for cheats?"

Madge smiled. "No, I don't take you for cheats. I am afraid that you are going to behave like knights of chivalry, and that you will not try to win the boat race, which you are to row against Miss Harris, Miss Paine, Phil and me. So you must vow that you will row fairly and squarely and that you will not hold back or give us any unfair advantage."

The young men hesitated, looking sheepishly at one another. How had Madge guessed their plan?

"We won't row with you unless you make us this promise," threatened Phyllis.

Flora Harris and Alice Paine also insisted that this promise be given, and after a good-natured protest on their part, the young men finally agreed to Madge's demand.

The five sculls were waiting out on the water. There was a sixth boat for the umpire, Professor Gordon, to follow the race. Professor Gamage was to act as judge at the finish.

The girls got into their boats first, taking their station a hundred yards ahead of the three sculls to be pulled by the men.

Madge and Phyllis, who were on the inside course, remembered every word of Jimmy Lawton's coaching. They had won the spring regatta at Miss Tolliver's school. But then they had rowed only against other girls. Now, they were to enter into a different kind of contest. They did not even know how skilful their feminine competitors were. The boys, of course, had superior strength and training.

Lieutenant Lawton had declared that the one chance for Phyllis and Madge lay in the start. If they could get away in good style, and make a spurt toward the goal, the fact of their hundred yards advantage and the shortness of the course would give them considerable chance of winning the race.

The disadvantage under which Madge and Phil labored was that they had not been accustomed to rowing in anything but quiet waters. Flora and Alice were accustomed to rowing in the surf. The few days' practice on the bay under Lieutenant Jimmy's direction had helped the two girls. They had learned the advantage of the long stroke with the high "feather." Phil was acting as stroke oar in their boat, Madge as bowman; Alice Paine was stroke and Flora bowman in the rival skiff.

The four girls pulled gloriously. It was a lovely September day, and no time or strength was wasted in false starts. None of the girls dared to look back at the men when the signal to get away rang out. No cry of false start rang after them, and they saw that their masculine rivals were in close pursuit.

At the beginning of the contest Phyllis and Madge made the best forward spurt. A moment later Flora and Alice brought their boat up bow and bow.

Neither Madge nor Phil glanced toward their opponents. Their work lay plainly ahead of them. The girls sat squarely in their skiff, their bodies bending sharply forward, then back to recover. They held their oars firmly but lightly, and pulled for their lives.

The four girls saw that the men were gaining on them. But they had already covered half of the course. None of them cared very much whether the boys were the victors. The two pairs of girls were intent only on outstripping each other.

Madge and Phil knew they could not hold out long. But how they were pulling! They had never done such splendid work before in their lives. The boys were amazed. They were trying to keep their word to Madge. Now it struck them that, after all, they would have to make a real effort to win. The girls had made such a splendid advance that the men pulled a little harder at their oars.

Flora Harris and Alice Paine gained a few feet on the other girls. The experience of the former pair in rough waters was beginning to show.

Determination to win made Madge and Phil redouble their efforts. Their opponents were only a shade ahead of them now. The boats were keeping to their straight courses in the open sound. It is a first rule, in boat racing of any kind, that each boat shall keep to its own water throughout the race.

Flora Harris, as bowman, was responsible for the steering of her boat. Whether from accident or intention, just as the bow of the rival skiff came about midway the body of their shell Flora Harris pulled harder on her port oar. Her boat swerved to the left. For a brief second the bow crossed directly in front of the skiff rowed by the "Merry Maid" girls. Madge was taken completely off her guard. She had not time to call out to Phil. Phyllis, as stroke oar, was not expected to know what was happening. Her duty was to row steadily ahead. Her companion's sudden exclamation, the unexpected vision of the other boat in their course, confused Phil. She lost her stroke. In the same second, Flora Harris and Alice Paine returned to their course and pulled triumphantly ahead. Their mistake lost them first place. But they outclassed Madge and Phil. Harry Sears and George Robinson swept past and came up to the stake. Flora and Alice were second. Tom and Alfred, the two Simrall brothers, pulled past Madge and Phil. They had fulfilled Phil's prediction and brought up the rear.

Professor Gordon, who, as umpire, had been following the race, was worried. Of course, he had seen the foul made by Alice and Flora. Yet he did not know exactly what to do. It was possible that girls did not understand the rules of boat racing. This race was being rowed for pleasure. The girls were the guests of his boys at the camp. Flora Harris's father was an officer at Fortress Monroe. It would hardly do to accuse his daughter of cheating. He decided to allow the competitors to register a complaint. He would say nothing until the complaint was made to him.

When Madge and Phyllis pulled in to the line of the other racing boats Professor Gamage, the judge at the finish, was about to announce the victors. Phil's face was white. She looked tired and dispirited. Madge's cheeks were flaming. Every muscle in her body was tense. She did not appear to feel the slightest fatigue.

"Don't say anything, Madge," pleaded Phil, before they came up with the others. "If the umpire does not declare the race to be a foul, we must not mention it. We were rowing only for fun. We don't wish to make a scene. If we were to accuse Alice and Flora of committing a foul, they would be likely to deny it."

"I must speak! I won't bear it!" breathed Madge passionately. "Why should I allow Flora Harris the use of what we have rightfully won? Tom or Alfred Thornton ought to speak."

Phyllis had no chance for further argument with her friend. The announcements were being made.

"Sears and Robinson, first place; Miss Harris and Miss Paine, second," the judge called out. "If you will row back to the starting place, I believe Mrs. Curtis has some prizes to award. We couldn't manage to transport our audience up here."

The crews accepted the verdict in silence. Harry Sears and George Robinson looked appealingly toward Madge and Phil, then toward their umpire. Madge glanced at Tom from under her long lashes. Tom's face was flaming, yet he said nothing. During the short row back to the camping grounds the canoe crews were significantly silent.

At the starting place Mrs. Curtis, Madeleine, Lillian and Eleanor waited to greet them, their arms filled with flowers. Before leaving for Washington, Lieutenant Lawton had placed an order with a florist for two bouquets of red and white roses tied with blue ribbon, to be presented to Madge and Phil.

When Madeleine presented the bouquets the girls took their flowers with half-averted faces.

The guests of the day, however, were eagerly watching Mrs. Curtis, who was holding two beautiful silver loving cups in her hands. Professor Gordon announced Harry Sears and George Robinson as the winners of the race. They received the larger of the cups in rather an embarrassed fashion.

"But I wish to know the girl winners," protested Mrs. Curtis, glancing about the group of young people.

Flora came toward her smiling in the superior manner that proud Madge particularly disliked. "I believe we came next, Mrs. Curtis," she announced.



Mrs. Curtis had just opened her lips to congratulate the winners when a high, clear voice surprised the little company.

"Professor Gordon, did you not, as umpire, see that Miss Harris and Miss Paine committed a foul which disqualified them in our boat race?"

"O Madge!" Mrs. Curtis spoke in a tone of intense displeasure. Madeleine's lovely face flushed with embarrassment. Lillian and Eleanor felt the color rise to their own faces. Miss Jenny Ann stepped to the side of impetuous Madge, who had precipitated this awkward situation.

Flora Harris paused with her hand lifted to receive the prize. Her cousin, Alice Paine, looked as though she would like to sink through the earth.

"Does Miss Morton object to our receiving the prize?" Flora queried icily. "Then, please don't give it to us. I hardly thought Miss Morton could endure to see any one but herself as the winner. An Army officer's daughter is not likely to receive a reward after she has been accused of cheating, nor will she ever overlook the insult."

Flora moved away from Mrs. Curtis, her head held high, her face white with anger.

The sympathy of most of the onlookers was at present with Flora and Alice. Phyllis said nothing, but she moved nearer to Madge, her lips closed in the firm line which never meant retreat.

"You should have made your complaint to me, Miss Morton, before we left the boats," answered Professor Gordon sternly. "Don't you think it is too late, now that we have come ashore and the places have been awarded?"

"It is not the prize that we wish," returned Madge unsteadily. "It is only that I think it is dreadful to win anything unfairly. Tom, you saw what happened. Will you not speak?"

"Yes," began Tom sturdily, determined to stand by Madge, "I saw Flora——"

Mrs. Curtis laid her hand on her son's arm. With one appealing glance at his mother Tom subsided. "I am sorry this error has occurred," she announced to the assembled guests. "I am sure that, if an error in the race were committed, it was not intentional. I insist on Miss Harris and Miss Paine accepting this cup. Madge should not have made her accusation at such a time and place. I think that she owes her opponents an apology."

Mrs. Curtis was gazing at Madge with more disfavor than she had ever before shown her favorite.

The little captain felt that she would like to put her arms about some one's neck and cry her heart out. She was sorry she had spoken, she was ashamed to have made such a scene and to have spoiled the boys' party, but she was not ready to apologize for having told the truth. Now her eyes were flashing ominously and her red lips were curled in scorn. She had never looked prettier or more obstinate.

"Any apology I have to offer will have to be made to you, Mrs. Curtis," she answered between her teeth. "I can not apologize to Miss Harris or Miss Paine for having told the truth. Of course, I accept the umpire's decision. I know that we should have entered our protest before we left our boat."

Madge walked proudly away from the group. Her arms were full of flowers, but her heart was full of woe. Why did she always seem to be in the wrong where Flora Harris was concerned? What a bad-tempered girl everyone must think her!

Phyllis turned to follow Madge, nor would she desert her chum for a moment until the houseboat party left the camping grounds. Mrs. Curtis did not notice Madge. She was thoroughly incensed. Tom had only a chance to whisper: "Course you were right, dear girl. Flora Harris and Alice cheated abominably. It was my fault too. I should have spoken up at first. I let things go only because Mother was set on it, and I didn't wish to see our party break up in a quarrel. All the fellows in the race are with you. They saw what happened. They were cowards, just as I was. They didn't want to raise a fuss with the girls."

The rest of the day did not pass very pleasantly for Madge. Mrs. Curtis could not forgive the little captain for what she considered her lack of diplomacy, and, knowing herself to be under the ban of her friend's displeasure, Madge was singularly uncomfortable and ill at ease. Miss Jenny Ann and the three "Merry Maid" girls could not help feeling that though Madge had been somewhat hasty, still she had done nothing reprehensible, and that it looked as though Mrs. Curtis were almost taking sides with Flora Harris.

It was with unmistakable relief that the houseboat party said good night to Mrs. Curtis and boarded Tom Curtis's launch for the ride back to the "Merry Maid."

Madge drew a little apart from the others, staring moodily out over the moonlit water. Finally Tom seated himself beside her and they talked impersonally. She was too proud to bring up the subject of what had occurred on shore, and Tom's sense of delicacy prevented him from trying to discuss the disagreeable scene she had precipitated with her.

Once on board their boat the girls were unusually quiet, and preparations for bed that night were accompanied by little conversation. Knowing Madge's disposition, and that she was already suffering deeply from her too frank expression of opinion that afternoon, her friends had decided among themselves to allow the subject to rest.

It was long after midnight, and the "Merry Maid" and her crew were supposedly deep in slumber when Miss Jenny Ann was awakened by the sound of low sobbing from Madge's berth. A moment later the chaperon was bending over the little captain.

"Madge, dear, what is the matter?" she asked in alarm.

"O Miss Jenny Ann!" wailed Madge, "when shall I learn to keep my temper? Phil told me to say nothing, and I did intend to hold my tongue. But when that Harris girl stepped up so coolly to receive the prize, knowing what a cheat she was, the words rushed out before I knew they were coming. No one will ever forgive me for spoiling the day. I'll never forgive myself."

"Don't cry so, Madge, dear," soothed Miss Jenny Ann. "You mustn't blame yourself too severely. You had great provocation."

"I am not a bit sorry for what I said." Madge sat up in bed, a defiant gleam in her eyes. Then her lips quivered and she said brokenly: "It—it's—Mrs. Curtis. I—am—sorry—she—is angry with—me."

"You had better go over to the hotel and see Mrs. Curtis in the morning," advised Miss Jones, "then, if she decides it to be necessary, you must apologize to Flora Harris."

"Why should I apologize to her?" Madge's eyes grew dark with anger. "She behaved very dishonorably."

"But you precipitated a very disagreeable scene, which, as you yourself have said, spoiled the pleasure of the party for all Mrs. Curtis's guests," reminded her teacher. "I know that you were severely tried. My private opinion of Flora Harris is not a flattering one, but Madge Morton is too great of spirit not to admit her fault and apologize to Miss Harris for telling the brutal truth in a brutal manner."

Madge gazed almost sternly into the other woman's serious eyes. "I will apologize to Miss Harris on one condition only," her red lips took on an obstinate curve, "if Mrs. Curtis wishes me to do so."



CHAPTER VIII

THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH

The morning after the boat race Tom Curtis came over to see the girls in the launch, and took Madge back to Old Point with him to see his mother.

Mrs. Curtis was not proof against Madge's sincere apology. She had been very angry with her young friend until Tom had privately assured her that Madge's abrupt accusation was true. Flora and Alice had won the race unfairly. One pleading look from the little captain's blue eyes the next morning caused her to surrender. She was no longer sure that she wished Madge to apologize to a girl who had been guilty of so dishonorable an action.

"I am sorry that you and Flora are not on friendly terms," she said regretfully. "I am afraid we can not give the play. Flora Harris will no doubt withdraw from the cast simply to complicate matters."

"Mrs. Curtis," said Madge with compelling directness, "would you rather I should apologize to Flora Harris?"

Mrs. Curtis eyed Madge reflectively. "I don't know, my dear," she hesitated.

"I am going to do it!" cried Madge, springing to her feet. "Don't say a word; I'd rather make Miss Harris fifty apologies than spoil all your lovely plans."

Mrs. Curtis insisted firmly on accompanying Madge to Flora Harris's home. The little captain walked across the parade ground at Fortress Monroe to the house of Colonel Harris, her face very pale, her auburn head held high.

They had been seated in the Harris's drawing room for at least ten minutes before Flora Harris entered. She did not so much as glance at Madge, although she greeted Mrs. Curtis rather effusively.

If Mrs. Curtis could have signaled to Madge, she would not have permitted her to humiliate herself by an apology to this ill-bred girl. She was extremely angry at Flora's rudeness and regretted that she had held the slightest sympathy for her. But before she could catch Madge's eye the little captain had begun her apology.

"Miss Harris," she declared quietly, "I am very sorry to have created the scene that I did at the boat race yesterday. It was not very diplomatic in me, and I am afraid I destroyed everyone's pleasure in the party."

Flora Harris favored Madge with the merest fraction of a glance. "I thought you would soon see your mistake," she answered coolly.

"My mistake?" For an instant Madge's blue eyes glittered with anger. Then, rallying her self-control, she said sweetly, "I suppose it was a mistake to speak openly. It must have been very disagreeable for you. It would have been kinder to remain silent."

Flora Harris turned scarlet. Mrs. Curtis bit her lips to keep from smiling. Madge bowed distantly to Flora. Then she rose and said demurely: "Are you ready to go, Mrs. Curtis? Good afternoon, Miss Harris."

There was a distinct note of constraint in Mrs. Curtis's voice as she said good-bye to Flora Harris. She was heartily disgusted with the cavalier manner which the officer's daughter had exhibited, and privately registered a vow that after the play she would invite Miss Harris to her hotel but little.

Madge stayed to luncheon with Mrs. Curtis and Madeleine. In the afternoon Tom came in with the news that the Army headquarters at Fortress Monroe were ringing with the story of the disappearance of Lieutenant Jimmy Lawton. It was rumored that he had started for Washington, where he was to appear before a body of naval experts selected to judge the value of his invention. Up to that time he had not arrived in Washington. He had made no report in regard to his failure to appear. Gossip was beginning to whisper that Lieutenant Jimmy was not such a patriot after all. Possibly he had run away to a foreign country to sell his model to the highest bidder. He might never again be allowed to wear his uniform as an officer in the United States Navy.

Madge wondered what she ought to tell Phil in regard to the strange rumors. She was afraid Phyllis would be grieved, and be sadly worried. What had the two girls concealed in the mysterious package left in their charge by the vanished officer, who had evidently foreseen that gossip would follow his mysterious departure?

Madge need not have troubled herself on Phil's account. That young woman took the report of Lieutenant Jimmy's disappearance with perfect calmness. "He will be back very soon," she asserted to Madge. "Then he will be able to explain everything to everyone's satisfaction. Lieutenant Lawton is not a traitor. Just you wait and see!" So Phyllis continued to have faith in the young officer. She never reflected on what the box in her trunk contained, but she never left the trunk unlocked for a moment. Nor did she ever fail to wear a small brass key about her person.

On the evening appointed for the performance of "The Decision" all personal differences were apparently forgotten. Madge thought no more of her trouble with Flora Harris. She had tried to be as polite to her as possible and Flora had appeared to accept her apology. Flora Harris had determined that it was the wisest thing that she could do to appear to be friendly with Madge. It would make the revenge which she had planned against Madge the more complete. Then, if she let it be known that Miss Morton had withdrawn the accusation against herself and Alice, no one could possibly believe there had been any truth in it in the beginning. Her act would appear to be inspired only by her own chagrin over defeat in the race.

The day of the play Lillian and Madge were radiant over the prospect of the evening's gayety. Eleanor, Phil and Miss Jenny Ann were equally interested. The four girls sewed and talked the entire morning. They had not had such a good time together since the beginning of their second houseboat holiday. In a few days "The Merry Maid" would be sent up the bay to be looked after for the winter; the four comrades would return to Miss Tolliver's school; Miss Jenny Ann would be turned from chaperon to teacher. The girls were enthusiastic about their winter. Of course, they would study harder and accomplish more than they ever had before, they promised themselves.

The private ballroom in her hotel, which Mrs. Curtis had engaged for the performance of the little drama, was delightfully arranged. A small stage was erected at one end of it, and low-growing flowers and palms banked about it. There was little light in the back of the room, where the audience sat, but the miniature stage was brilliant with the glow of delicately shaded electric lights.

Mrs. Curtis had invited about fifty guests, her friends from the nearby hotels and cottages, and a number of Army and Navy officers with their families. The season was almost at an end. Mrs. Curtis, Madeleine and Tom would leave for New York in ten days. They wished their last entertainment to be a memorable one.

Miss Jenny Ann sat in one of the front row chairs with Eleanor and Phyllis. In their dressing room, Madge was trying to comfort Lillian, who had lost her courage at the eleventh hour. When the time came for her to go on, however, Lillian forgot her stage fright and made her first entrance with the air of a seasoned trouper. The heavy work of the play lay between Flora Harris and Madge, and in the enactment of the little drama that followed it was difficult to realize that neither of the two young women was a professional.

"Flora Harris's part is pretty well suited to her," Tom Curtis had confided to Madge at the dress rehearsal the day before. "I can imagine she would be quite likely to load the blame for her own misdeeds on the other girl's shoulders. She wouldn't experience a change of heart at the end of the stunt the way this girl did, either."

And Madge, being merely human, could not resist flashing him a glance which meant that she quite agreed with him.

It was in the final scene, where the secretary makes her appeal to the father of the girl, that Madge scored her greatest triumph. The rise and fall of her clear voice, that Madeleine always asserted had "tears" in it, coupled with the intense earnestness with which she made her plea, called forth ungrudging applause, and when, after the cast had taken several encores the audience still kept up a steady clamor, she was obliged to appear between the silken curtains and make a little speech. It was indeed Madge Morton's hour of triumph.



CHAPTER IX

MADGE MORTON'S SECRET

Mrs. Curtis had arranged that her younger guests should have refreshments served to them in the small private dining room as soon as their play was over. The older guests were to be served in another larger room which she had engaged for that purpose.

In the middle of the dining room was a table decorated with a model houseboat made of crystal candy. There were flowers, fruits and candies on the table, which was lighted with candles.

When Madge, Lillian, Tom Curtis and Harry Sears entered the room Eleanor and Phil were standing at one side of this table, talking to a group of their friends. Directly after they took their places the two Simrall boys and half a dozen other young people were ushered in, until the room was comfortably full.

Suddenly, as though drawn by a curious force, Madge lifted her eyes. She saw the dining room door open and Flora Harris enter. She was followed by Alfred Thornton, whose face was a dull red and whose eyes were lowered. Madge felt a premonition of disaster, an apprehensive shudder passed over her. Flora continued to walk the entire length of the room, speaking to no one. When she came to Madge she halted, staring at her through insolent, half-closed eyes.

Tom looked at Flora Harris in angry amazement. He knew she was about to make a disagreeable speech, but he wondered what had actuated her to do so. He frowned over the heads of the girls at Alfred Thornton. He tried to signal to him to steer Miss Harris in some safer direction, but Alfred would not return his glance.

"Miss Morton," began Flora, in an unusually high voice, "I wish to congratulate you on your success to-night. There is no doubt about your talent as an actress." Flora laid such stress on the word "actress" that Madge blushed hotly.

"Thank you," she answered, fighting back her temper.

Alfred Thornton leaned over to whisper to Flora, "Don't, Flora, please, don't."

Flora Harris tossed her head angrily. For some time she had been stealthily planning her revenge against Madge. Now that she had an unusually good opportunity to put her plan into action, she did not intend to allow the little captain to escape her unscathed.

"It is a matter of surprise to me, Miss Morton, that you could have the temerity to come here to Old Point Comfort, knowing it to be a military post," she continued.

Madge started slightly. The movement of her body was scarcely perceptible, yet Flora saw it.

"Oh, I see you understand me," she sneered, "but as it is very bad form to exchange confidences when others are present, let us have done with confidences. I am sure everyone here will be deeply interested in my story, which is this: Once upon a time there was an officer in the Navy whose name was Robert Morton. He proved himself unworthy to be a naval officer and was dismissed from the service in disgrace and disappeared. Miss Morton will tell you the rest of the story. As Robert Morton was her father, it is just possible that she can tell us something further about him." Flora's face shone with cruel triumph.

Madge looked at her tormentor with unseeing eyes. For the instant she was stunned by the blow. Then reason returned. White to the lips, she fixed Flora with the stern question, "Where did you hear this story?"

The others of the party sat staring in horrified silence.

Flora shrugged her shoulders. "Anything to oblige you," she retorted, "but don't attempt to say the story isn't true. I know it to be true because my grandfather was your father's superior officer at the time."

Madge gave one sharp cry that brought the company to their feet in alarm. "Your grandfather's name—tell me—I must know."

"Richard Foster Harris," replied Flora, gazing at Madge with a deep frown. What was the matter? Her vengeful announcement was having an entirely different effect upon the girl she disliked than that which she had anticipated. "My grandfather is an admiral now. He was in line for promotion when your father was dismissed in disgrace." Flora lingered over the word "disgrace."

"Your grandfather, Richard Foster Harris," repeated Madge brokenly. "Then he is—he is—oh, I am not so cruel as you. I can not speak against——"

"What do you mean?" almost screamed Flora. "How dare you even insinuate anything against my grandfather? He is an admiral, do you understand, an admiral!"

Madge glanced about her, meeting the anxious, sympathetic faces of her friends. They were for the moment completely taken aback by this sudden turn in affairs. Alfred Thornton's eyes was the only pair which refused to meet hers. He averted his head.

"I thought," she said, addressing Miss Harris with a gentle dignity that went straight to the hearts of her hearers, "that I could retaliate, that I could say to you words that would cut into your soul as deeply as your words have cut into mine, but there are strong reasons why I can't say them."

"And I insist that you explain your insinuation," flung back Flora. "Do so at once, or I will send for Mrs. Curtis and force you to do as I say."

"Send for Mrs. Curtis if you wish." Madge's face was a white mask lighted by the defiant gleam of eyes that seemed almost to flame. "Do not imagine, however, that I shall either explain or retract what I have just said."

Letting her gaze wander from one to the other of her friends, she said with finality: "I can not even discuss the charge Miss Harris has made against my father. It is true that he was once in the Navy, and that I once believed him to be dead. More than that I can not tell you. It is, and must forever be, my secret."

Turning to Madeleine she said quietly, "Will you forgive me for having been the cause of this scene and allow me to go?"

For answer Madeleine drew Madge within the circle of her arm and kissed her tenderly.

"Good night." As one in a dream the little captain bowed to the company and walked to the door. Tom Curtis followed her, casting a wrathful glance at Flora Harris, who for once in her life could think of nothing to say.

There was the sound of a closing door, then Phil's voice rang out in tones of bitter denunciation:

"Miss Harris, you are the cruelest, most despicable girl I have ever known. Madge reverenced the memory of her father as something too sacred for discussion. I know that her greatest ambition in life was to find some one who had been his friend, some one who could tell her of him. Happily for Madge, I do not believe your accusation to be true. I am equally sure that her motive for silence is one you could never understand."

With a stiff little nod to the others Phil walked proudly to the door. She was followed by Lillian and Eleanor. Three minutes later Flora Harris and Alfred Thornton stood alone in the pretty banqueting room. Her revenge had cost her far more dearly than she had anticipated.



CHAPTER X

ADRIFT ON CHESAPEAKE BAY

"Alfred Thornton, you must do it." Flora Harris spoke under her breath. Half an hour had passed since she and Alfred Thornton had left the hotel.

The young man was about to say good night to her at her gate after having stubbornly refused to execute a certain commission for her.

"I can't do it," he protested. "If I were you, I'd let Madge Morton and her crowd alone. I did not believe to-night, until the last minute, that you would do as you had threatened. You didn't distinguish yourself by it."

Flora Harris shrugged her thin shoulders in the darkness. "Don't pretend to be shocked," she sneered, "and never mind lecturing me. Are you going to help me or are you going to play the coward at the last moment?"

"I have given you my answer. I'm not going to change it, either," repeated the youth sullenly, edging away from Miss Harris. "I think Miss Morton and her friends have had trouble enough. I don't wish to do anything that might possibly endanger their safety."

"Oh, very well," rejoined Flora angrily. "You know the alternative. If you won't do what I ask of you, I shall tell my father that you have been down here as a hired spy to find out about Jimmy Lawton's invention. I shall tell him that you offered Jimmy thousands of dollars for his patent, and advised him to sell out to you, and then to tell the Government that he had failed with his model. It would ruin not only your reputation, Alfred Thornton, for me to tell this story about you, it would probably do your father a great deal of harm. It would be a serious thing for your father if certain persons were to find out that he was trying to steal a valuable invention from his own country."

"You wouldn't tell, would you, Flora?" Alfred Thornton wiped his forehead nervously with his handkerchief, though it was a cool night. "Whew, if only I'd never let you find out what I was after!"

"You couldn't help yourself," retorted Flora airily. "You needed me. I would have done a great deal more for you, too, if you had not developed such a liking for Madge Morton. You thought you were managing so cleverly that I would not notice. Of course, I am not angry with you, but I think you ought to do something to make amends for being so deceitful."

Alfred Thornton flushed and hesitated.

"You see, Alfred, it is like this," went on Flora, taking advantage of his hesitation. "You must help me get the 'Merry Maid' away from our neighborhood. I believe I told the truth about Madge Morton's father. But if my father or grandfather ever learn of what happened to-night, they will be furious with me. I overheard my grandfather telling the story to my father the other night. When he mentioned the name of Captain Robert Morton, I remembered hearing Miss Butler telling Mrs. Curtis when the 'Merry Maid' girls were here before that Miss Morton's father had been an officer in the Navy, and that his name was Captain Robert Morton. Miss Butler is Miss Morton's cousin, you know. They live in the same house. When I heard that I put two and two together and took a chance on saying what I did. Now that you know the whole story you can easily see why I am anxious to have the 'Merry Maid' anchored as far from me as possible. If you will cut the rope of the houseboat and let the silly old craft drift away somewhere, the girls will be so busy with getting it back here that by the time they have done that their vacation will be over, and in the hurry of packing they won't have much chance to make a scene. I think my scheme is very clever."

Alfred Thornton looked overhead. It was a dark night. The stars had disappeared. Black clouds were gathering in the east.

The young man realized that he could do as Flora Harris demanded of him with very little danger of detection. The houseboat was moored along the beach by means of a heavy anchor tied with a thick rope. As an additional safeguard the stern hawser had been hitched about a post several yards up the beach out of the line of the tide. It would take a very few minutes to cut these ropes. What took place afterward he would not wait to see. He therefore reluctantly gave Flora the desired promise.

When the houseboat party boarded Tom's motor launch for the ride to the "Merry Maid" after Madge's tragic scene in the dining room they were strangely silent. Even Miss Jenny Ann, who had not been with the girls, did not know what had happened. A glance at Madge's face was enough to reveal to her that it had been serious. The little captain sat white and cold as a statue. She looked like the ghost of the radiant girl who had crossed the bay a few hours before. She shed no tears, and seemed rather to resent any expression of sympathy. When Eleanor took her cousin's cold hand, Madge held it loosely for a minute, then allowed it slowly to slide from the grasp of her icy fingers.

When Tom Curtis helped her out of his launch he had the courage to whisper: "Of course, dear girl, we are all with you. Don't you worry. Just leave matters to me. I'll see that Flora Harris doesn't escape censure. I am going to inform her father of her conduct to-night."

Madge smiled a faint good night to Tom when he took her limp hand in his own.

Once the girls were on the deck of their own boat she turned quietly to their chaperon.

"Miss Jenny Ann," she murmured, "the girls will tell you what happened to-night. I can't talk of it now. May I lie down on the couch in the living room? Will every one please leave me alone?"

The three other girls and Miss Jenny Ann sat for a while on the deck of their pretty boat. Eleanor kept her head buried in her chaperon's lap. She cried a little, partly from sympathy with Madge and partly from amazement and horror at the story she had just heard.

Very quietly Lillian told what had happened.

"Madge is right," Miss Jenny Ann concluded at the end of Lillian's recital. "We must not talk to her of this insult to her father. It is enough to let her know we do not believe it."

The little party did not linger out on deck after the story had been told. It was midnight and chilly. The wind was blowing over the water, lashing the waves to a white foam. As Miss Jenny Ann retired to her cabin the thought came to her that they had lingered too long aboard their houseboat. It was getting late in September. Any day they might be overtaken by an equinoctial storm. She wished that they had brought more coal and fresh water aboard the houseboat, and that the provisions in the larder had not run so low. She wondered if the boy who attended to their marketing, and carried things to and from the shore, would come down to them in a heavy rain.

Miss Jenny Ann did not attempt to go to sleep. She put on her dressing gown and lay down in her berth to think over their situation and decide what had best be done.

The other girls were soon asleep. But in a little while Miss Jones heard a faint sound. It came from their sitting room. Some one called her name. It was Madge.

Miss Jenny Ann went softly in, to find Madge still lying on the sofa, a little leather book clasped in her hands.

"I wish to tell you a story, Miss Jenny Ann," began Madge solemnly. "I have never told it to any one else, but I have come to the place where I feel that I ought to talk things over with some one I can trust. I know of no one else, not even Phil, to whom I would rather tell it. Would you like to hear it?"

"My dear, my dear," said Miss Jenny Ann tremulously, "I know of no one else whose confidence I should so prize as yours. But are you sure that you wish to tell me?"

Madge nodded. The hands of the two met in a strong, steady clasp, then Madge began the story of her discovery in the attic of the secret drawer and its contents, and of how the vow she had made that day had been broken in what promised to be the hour of its fulfillment.

After she had finished she lay back on the couch, staring out the cabin window. Knowing Madge as she did, the chaperon still sat beside her in sympathetic silence. She recognized the nobility of Madge's sacrifice. The girl's words: "He is an old man. I can not bring this humiliation upon him. My father would not wish it," rang in her ears.

"I think you are right, Madge," Miss Jenny Ann said at last. "In fact, I am sure you are. But it is very bitter for you."

"But don't you believe my father would wish me to keep his secret?" asked Madge anxiously.

"Yes, I believe he would," responded the chaperon, after a brief hesitation.

"And I shall do it," vowed Madge. "But some day, Miss Jenny Ann, perhaps the man who is really to blame for all my father's suffering will come to a realization of his own unworthiness and clear my father's name. I can't believe that Father is dead. I always think of him as being alive, and that some day I shall see him."

"I hope with all my heart that you will," said Miss Jenny Ann fervently. "Now you mustn't grieve any more, dear. You must go to sleep. It is long after midnight."

The chaperon bent down to kiss Madge good night.

"Good night, Miss Jenny Ann," said Madge. "I shall go to see Mrs. Curtis in the morning and apologize to her for leaving the party so suddenly. I seem destined always to be making apologies."

But for reasons which she could not foresee, Madge's apology was to be delayed indefinitely.

* * * * *

The night had grown pitch dark when Alfred Thornton crossed the bay. He had engaged a fast-going sea launch for his use during the evening of their play, and as his boat rushed along through the sea, which was rapidly growing rougher, he debated in his mind as to whether he was acting wisely.

Alfred Thornton was not a high-minded youth. He was often dishonorable and unscrupulous in his dealings with men, but he thoroughly disliked the hateful task ahead of him. Yet he moved doggedly toward it. He must save his own and his father's reputation, perhaps his fortune! There was no reason for him to believe that Flora Harris would spare him unless he did what she had demanded. He had that evening seen how far the spirit of revenge could lead her.

While Alfred Thornton was on his way to the houseboat Tom Curtis lay awake on his camp cot thinking of Madge and of what he could do to disprove the cruel story that Flora Harris had told. Of course, it must be false. Yet the girl would hardly have dared to tell such a tale unless a grain of truth had been hidden in it somewhere. Poor Madge! Tom wondered how her proud, passionate spirit would bear up under the shadow of such a sorrow.

In the meantime Alfred Thornton brought his launch in to the shore. He landed about a mile below the houseboat. The "Merry Maid" was anchored near a point of land known as Wayside Point. Alfred left his shoes in his launch, walking up the beach in his stocking feet. He waded in the water the greater part of the time, so as not to leave the imprint of his feet in the sand. A storm was blowing in from the ocean. The singing sound of the wind came over the face of the waters. Alfred knew that the night was working with him. If he could accomplish his secret design without being discovered in the act, the houseboat party and their friends would believe that the houseboat had been torn from her moorings by the force of the September gale.

He reached the neighborhood of the boat without meeting any one. It was an ideal night for prowling along the beach. The "Merry Maid" lay quietly at anchor, although the waves were beginning to lash against her sides with more than their accustomed energy. The youth was guided toward her by the golden lights that shone through the yellow lamps outside her cabin.

There was absolute silence aboard the little boat; not a sight or a sound of any one stirring inside the cabin. Alfred Thornton pulled a large clasp knife from his pocket, then sawed savagely at the heavy rope that secured the anchor. It was the work of a moment to sever it. Next he pulled the divided ends into strands, hoping that the rope would look as though it had broken apart. There still remained the second rope that was twisted around the stake. Alfred crept cautiously out of the water up the little stretch of beach. This was his moment of danger. Any one looking through one of the cabin windows might see his dark figure. Yet Thornton hesitated. The wind was blowing strongly. Surely the pretty houseboat would not drift out into dangerous waters. Surely she would come aground a few miles further down the shore. The minutes were precious. Alfred Thornton quickly cut the second rope. Then, without glancing behind him to see the result of his deed, he ran with all speed to his own motor launch.

"I know I am late," Thornton muttered to Tom Curtis as he crept into the cot alongside of Tom's. "I had to take that Harris girl home. She kept me talking on her porch for ages. A storm was coming up and it was hard to get across the bay. I shall be glad when this foolishness is over and we break camp and get back home again."

When the ropes of the "Merry Maid" were cut she did not drift at once from the shore and in adventurous fashion, make use of her new freedom. The way outside was strange and uncertain. The "Merry Maid" had never traveled from a safe anchorage except when she was under escort and protection. Now she lingered, drifting uncertainly, but keeping close to the shore and moving very slowly.

Half an hour after midnight the tide changed. The water ran away from the shore. The wind rose to a shrieking gale. But the "Merry Maid" was not unstable. The bottom of the boat was flat, she was broad and roomy. She did not pitch and roll, as a lighter craft would have done; she simply moved quietly away from the shore, borne by the wind and the tide.

The houseboat had been anchored for two weeks along the southwest shore of Cape Charles, not many miles from where the great Atlantic Ocean enters the Chesapeake Bay. Slowly but steadily the "Merry Maid" drifted down the Maryland coast. Once out on the deep waters the pretty toy boat moved on and on. In the cabin Miss Jenny Ann and the girls slept peacefully, unconscious of danger.

Soon the lights in the yellow-shaded lamps went out. The boat was in utter darkness.

If there had been lights aboard the "Merry Maid," if early in her perilous voyage cries for help had sounded from her deck, the little boat would soon have been rescued. But with no lights and no sounds aboard, the houseboat passed on her way, and purely by chance her course did not cross the line of another craft.



CHAPTER XI

THE AWAKENING

It was about an hour before dawn when Phyllis Alden awoke with an odd sensation. She had dreamed that she had been traveling in an airship and had grown seasick from the motion. She heard a sound of wind and pouring rain, and a far-off muffled roar of thunder. A storm had come up, of this Phyllis was sure. But why did she continue to feel seasick? How the wind and the waves were rocking the poor "Merry Maid"!

The boat lurched a little. Phil clutched at the side of her berth. By this time she was wider awake. "What a terrific storm!" she thought to herself. "I hope we won't be blown away." Phil turned over on her pillow. It was incredible that everybody else should be asleep when the wind made such a noise. Besides, the boat was moving; Phil felt sure of it.

She sat up in her berth. At this moment a heavy wave struck the "Merry Maid" on her port side. Phil rolled out of bed and ran to the tiny cabin window. The rain was coming down so hard and fast that, try as she might, she could not see the familiar line of the shore.

Once Phil's feet were on the floor she realized that their boat was actually moving. Seizing her dressing-gown, without calling to one of the other girls, she rushed out on the rain-swept deck. For a moment the rain filled her eyes and blinded her. Her breath left her. She clung to the railing outside the cabin. Far off, back of them, a single, far-reaching light shone on the water. To the right a dimmer glow burned. But everything else was a blank waste of water. She stood, a white and terror-stricken figure, realizing in the instant their great disaster.

"Miss Jenny Ann! Madge!" she shouted, going back into the cabin. "Wake up, won't you? Put something warm around you and come out on the deck with me. I am afraid the houseboat has broken from her anchorage and drifted some distance from the shore."

Miss Jenny Ann sprang up at once. For some time she had been conscious of the storm. The peculiar sound of the lashing waves and the movement under her she had ascribed to the gale. Once on her feet, she, too, realized that the boat was rocking violently. They must be at the mercy of the heavy seas. It was unbelievable that they had not awakened when the houseboat had first slipped from her moorings.

Of course, Miss Jenny Ann and the girls still thought that they had floated out from Wayside Point only a short time before. The storm was so heavy—that must explain why they could see no land.

"Put on your heaviest clothes, girls, and your raincoats," Miss Jenny Ann ordered bravely, trying to keep her own consternation out of her voice. "We must light the lamps that should hang at the bow and stern of our boat, and any others that will not be blown out by the wind. To think that last night was the first time that we forgot to put out our signal lanterns! We forgot everything in the excitement of the play."

The four girls slipped quietly into their clothes. They followed their chaperon out on the deck. There they found her seated, flat on the deck so as not to be thrown off her feet by the wind. Beaten and buffeted by the storm, Madge and Phyllis finally managed to hang their lanterns in the prow and stern of the houseboat. Then the five of them sat down together.

"What do you think we had better do?" Phil asked, as cheerily as possible.

"There is nothing to do but to stay aboard until we are taken off by some other boat," answered Miss Jones. "We shall have to call out for help."

How black and deep the water looked, how unlike the quiet channels in which the houseboat had previously rested. "What time is it, Madge?" inquired their chaperon unexpectedly.

Madge fought her way into the cabin. "It is nearly five o'clock," she called. "The dawn will come within the hour."

It was difficult to keep a light burning, the wind blew so fiercely, the rain poured down in such heavy sheets. The houseboat party dared not go inside their cabin. They must stay on deck to watch for an approaching boat to tow them safely back to land.

They sat in a huddled group, their arms about each other. The gay Japanese parasols, the pretty decorations of the houseboat, had long since blown away. Half a dozen chairs romped and rioted about the deck, turning somersaults, now and then hurling themselves against the railing or the sides of the cabin. The girls could only faintly see one another's faces.

Phil had a small fog horn, through which she blew as long as her breath held out. Then she passed it to Lillian and so down the line. The five women sat with their backs to the cabin wall for the sake of the scanty shelter. Eleanor rang a large dinner bell, which she had used on other occasions to summon the houseboat party to their meals.

For an hour they waited, in silence save for sounds made by the bell and the horn. Now and then one of the girls cried out for help. But most of the time they stared out on the water, hoping, expecting every instant to see some other craft. The dawn was long in breaking because of the fury of the storm.

Miss Jenny Ann began to think that the houseboat had drifted a much longer time than she had at first supposed. They were certainly in dangerous waters. Never in her life had she seen the breakers roll so high. It was a marvel that the "Merry Maid" did not capsize. She and the girls fully realized their danger. Yet no one of them made any outcry.

The girls were growing very tired. Now and then one of them fell asleep for a brief instant.

Over and over again in Madge's head, as she sat among her friends, so pale and silent, came the sound of the congregation singing in the little stone church near "Forest House":

"Oh, hear us, when we call to Thee, For those in peril on the sea!"

The words brought comfort to her now.

When dawn came the storm abated. But with the passing of the storm came another and a greater danger to the "Merry Maid." A heavy fog settled down on the water. It was hardly possible to see more than a few feet ahead. No ship's crew could discover the poorly lighted craft in such a thick, impenetrable fog.

Phyllis owned a small compass. She could tell that their boat was moving southeast. The wind was at their back. It was strange that they had been able to signal no other ships. It could not be possible that they had been blown out to sea!

It must have been nearly eight o'clock when Miss Jenny Ann went into the cabin, leaving the four girls to keep the watch. They were sick and faint. Presently the delicious aroma of boiling coffee floated out on the fog-laden atmosphere.

Miss Jenny Ann summoned the girls indoors, two at a time. The coffee, toast and bacon brought fresh courage. She made them change their wet clothing for that which was warm and dry. They kept the fire burning in the kitchen stove. After a while their fate did not seem so hopeless. The girls were frightened, of course. They wished a ship would hurry along to pick them up. But there was something deliciously thrilling in the idea that the "Merry Maid" was voyaging alone on a—to them—unknown sea, and that they were the first mariners who had ever drifted on such a boat.

All day long the lights were kept burning on the houseboat. There was nothing else to do, although there was the possibility that their oil might give out; they had not a large supply on board. But there was no other way to attract attention. The fog never lifted. If a large boat should bear down upon them, without seeing their lights, the "Merry Maid" would go to the bottom of the sea.

The houseboat no longer rocked violently. The water had become smoother, as is always the case in a fog.

Now and then, during the long day, one of the girls would attempt to go about some accustomed duty. Lillian and Eleanor made up the berths in the cabin. Madge and Phyllis rescued the chairs that were being blown about the deck and lashed them down securely. But after a time the little company would unconsciously creep together to continue their silent staring.

In the afternoon Miss Jenny stationed two girls at the forward watch. She stood in the stern. Madge and Lillian went on the upper deck of their little cabin for a further range of vision.

Far out on the water Madge saw two great, curling columns of smoke.

"Look, Lillian!" she cried hopelessly, "there goes an ocean liner. We must be far from shore. How can we signal her?"

Five tired voices took up a shrill call. Two white sheets fluttered dismally. But the great steamer, on her way to Baltimore, neither heard the sound nor saw the white signals of distress. It was ten times more dismal when the friendly smoke had dissolved in the heavy atmosphere!

Another two hours went by. Madge wondered if it could have been only last night when Flora Harris had so cruelly insulted her. Yet how little Madge had thought of her trouble to-day! How far away it seemed, like a sorrow that had come to her years before.

Just before sunset the fog lifted as though by magic. Madge and Phyllis were together on the cabin deck when a deep rose flush appeared in the western sky. Instead of a line of sea and sky, some distance ahead of the houseboat, just under the horizon, a faint, dark streak showed itself.

"Madge, what is that over there?" Phil asked sharply, pointing ahead.

Madge shook her head. "I am not sure," she answered.

Another fifteen minutes passed. The "Merry Maid" kept a straight course.

Phil clutched Madge by the sleeve. "If I am not mistaken, there is land over there. Our houseboat is being carried straight toward it."

The girls called down their discovery to Miss Jenny Ann, but the watchers below had also been conscious of a change in the horizon.

Miss Jenny Ann feared that she had seen a mirage, she had gazed so long at the water.

"I know it is land, Miss Jenny Ann," Phyllis insisted, with the assurance that made her such a comfort to her friends in times of difficulty.

But would the houseboat ever drift near enough to shore to allow them to be seen from the land? Very slowly the "Merry Maid" now glided on. She was in quieter water. There was little wind, but a surer force drew her toward the land. The tide was running in. After a time the houseboat party realized this. There was nothing to do but to wait and see how far in their boat would drift. After a time they could see the outline of a sandy shore, with thick woods behind it. But there was no house, no human being in sight.

At twilight the "Merry Maid" was not more than a mile from land, and still creeping toward it.

Madge's fighting blood returned to her. The troubles of the past had vanished. What, after all, was the idle insult of a cruel girl? She must now do what she could to save her friends and herself. Madge felt she had not been as courageous as the others during the day's trial. She had thought too much of her own grievances.

"Miss Jenny Ann," she announced determinedly, "I can't bear this slowness and uncertainty any longer. It looks as though the 'Merry Maid' were going near enough to the shore for us to be able to attract some one's attention in a little while; but if night comes before we reach the shore, it will be much more difficult. The beach does not look as though there were many people about."

"What would you have us do?" asked the chaperon.

"There is our very long clothes line on board," suggested Madge. The girls gazed at her in astonishment. What had their clothes line to do with the situation? "I want you to knot it around my waist," she continued, "and let me swim in to the shore."

Miss Jones shook her head. The other girls protested. "You are tired, Madge, and the water is too cold. It wouldn't be safe."

"But, Miss Jenny Ann—girls," pleaded Madge, "has it ever struck you that we do not know the time of the tide? At any moment it may turn and we shall be carried out on the ocean beyond to spend another dreadful night."

At first the little party were silent. Madge was right, yet they could not bear to think of her risking her life for them.

Her persuasions finally won the day. The houseboat was now only a little more than a quarter of a mile from the beach. But they had not been observed. There were no boats in sight.

Phil insisted on swimming in with Madge. She was not quite as much at home in the water, but she was a strong, steady swimmer, and it seemed safer for the two girls to make the effort together.

The clothes line was knotted about Madge's waist. It was then tied to the cleat, from which a short end of rope dangled that had been cut the night before.

After the first plunge into the cold water the swim ashore was delicious. When the two girls finally got into the shallow water they tugged at the rope, Madge keeping it around her waist, so as to pull with greater force. They worked very carefully. Their rope was slender, but fairly strong. This helped them to draw their boat in closer, and they managed to get the "Merry Maid" half aground on a shelf of sand. It was now possible to wade from the boat to the land, with the water coming up no higher than the waist.

Miss Jenny Ann climbed off the boat and made her way to the shore, followed by Lillian and Eleanor.

At last the five women, wet but thankful, stood safe on land.

Blankly they surveyed each other and the empty beach. Then they gazed at their pretty toy boat, that had borne so staunchly the vicissitudes of its dangerous voyage. It was almost night. The shipwrecked mariners were very tired and the beach was curiously lonely. But the strain was over.

Madge began to laugh first. Her laugh was always infectious. The others followed suit.

"Here we are, the latest thing in 'Swiss Family Robinson'," she announced cheerfully. "Now, let us proceed to stir up some people and ask them to give us some dry clothes and a night's lodging. Come on. Let us explore our island."



CHAPTER XII

A DESERTED ISLAND

The houseboat party did not penetrate very far up the shore. All were too utterly worn out. They walked for a mile or more, and, when they found no sign of life, came back to their landing place.

"There is nothing for us, children, but to sleep here on the beach to-night, or go back to our houseboat," declared Miss Jenny Ann. "We are perfectly safe, as there are no other human beings anywhere about."

"No more houseboat for me," rejoined Eleanor firmly. "Think of the size of the rope that held our anchor and now the boat is secured by a clothes line! I'll walk up and down on the beach all night, but I'll not set foot on the 'Merry Maid'."

"But, Eleanor," protested Lillian, "we are so wet and cold. And it's so dark and lonely."

"I know," agreed Miss Jenny Ann, "yet I feel a good deal as Nellie does."

"We'll freeze to death, or have pneumonia, then," put in Lillian plaintively.

Phil and Madge were talking together in low tones. Madge nodded her head wisely.

"It's worth trying," declared Phil stoutly.

Turning to the chaperon, she said: "Miss Jenny Ann, Madge and I are going back to the boat. We will get our steamer blankets and some matches. If you and the girls will find some wood we will make a fire on the beach. We can dry ourselves, and our fire may be observed in this forsaken place."

"You'll get the blankets wet bringing them here, Madge," remonstrated Lillian. "If only we had not left the 'Water Witch' up at Tom's camp, what a help it would be now!"

"Don't worry," laughed Madge, "just wait and see what Phil and I are going to do."

A light soon shone on the houseboat. Strange sounds of hammering were heard. Miss Jenny Ann, Lillian and Eleanor would have grown impatient if it had not been such slow work to find wood in the forest at night. But they came back to the beach with their arms full several times before a halloo from the houseboat indicated the return of the excursionists.

A heavy something fell plunk! over the side of the houseboat. Two figures scrambled after it. In a minute or two it was possible to see Madge and Phyllis pushing a large barrel in to shore. The barrel had originally been filled with potatoes, which the girls had dumped on the kitchen floor of the houseboat.

The barrel held several steamer blankets, dry shoes and stockings all around, matches, and a few pieces of kindling wood. Madge and Phil made several trips before they concluded their work for the night. Besides covering, they brought to the shore their cherished coffee pot and provisions for breakfast in the morning.

In the meantime their chaperon and the other two girls had made a glorious fire. By ten o'clock the entire party was sound asleep.

Miss Jenny Ann had not meant to sleep. She had intended to watch the fire all night. But such an overpowering drowsiness crept over her that she rose and piled all the wood they had left with them on the fire at once. Then she, too, gave herself up to slumber.

Madge awoke first in the morning. She leaned over to see if her cousin, Nellie, were all right. Nellie's brown eyes smiled back at her. The two girls rose softly and ran lightly back into the forest for more wood for their fire, of which a few faint embers were still burning.

The forest was very dense. There were no paths through it from the side at which the girls penetrated. There were oak, walnut and beech trees growing in primeval beauty. Great clusters of wild grape vines, loaded with ripe fruit, climbed the trunks of the trees and swung from their branches. The bittersweet black haws were ripe. They were easy to gather from the low limbs of the small trees.

Madge and Eleanor found quantities of twigs and small logs. When they had piled up the wood near their sleeping friends they went back to the forest and returned with plenty of grape leaves for plates, and as much of the wild fruit as they could carry.

It added greatly to their breakfast, and immediately after the houseboat party started on an exploring expedition. They must surely find some one to help them. At first the little clan of girls kept near to the beach, expecting to find a fisherman's cottage or a boat. They were afraid to go too far back in the woods on account of the danger of losing their way. They had had no fresh water since the day before, except the small amount that Madge and Phil brought from the houseboat for use in their coffee. All were growing very thirsty, and apparently there was no one to aid them on the beach.

Miss Jenny Ann began to think that they had landed on an island. It was altogether uninhabited and so could not be any part of a main shore.

Madge led the way when they entered the woods. She traveled slowly ahead, forcing her path through the tangled underbrush. They must surely find a house on the other side of the woodland. Now they listened eagerly for the sound of a stream of running water.

They had walked until afternoon before they came to a clearing in the forest. They had dropped down to rest, when Phil heard a longed-for murmur. It tinkled and splashed and gurgled. Phil was on her feet again in an instant, running toward the noise, her companions close after her.

There, in an open space, lay a pool of clear water, fed by a little stream that ran down a small embankment. At least it was a place of hope and refreshment, and they drank their fill of the clear, cold water. Somewhere near they must come across a house. Surely the island was not uninhabited.

Here the party divided, continuing the search in four directions. It was Lillian's call that brought them together again.

She stood in front of a small house. It was built of shingles, and the roof was made of cedar boughs. About a hundred feet off was another house of exactly the same kind. There was no sign of life anywhere about them. The paths in front of the doors were overgrown with weeds.

The five women knocked timidly on the first door. No sound came from behind it. They knocked again, then crossed over to the second house. It, too, was deserted. There was nothing to do but push open the doors.

The first rusty latch yielded easily. The house contained a single dirty room. There was no furniture, except one or two old chairs. The four corners of the room were filled with hemlock branches, which must once have served as beds. A rusty rifle leaned against the wall. Beside it lay a box half filled with cartridges. An old iron pot rested on some burned-out ashes. The place did not appear to have been occupied for some time. The other lodge was furnished in much the same way.

"What does it mean?" inquired Miss Jenny Ann faintly, feeling her courage about to give out. "It can't be possible that we have come ashore on an untenanted island?"

Phyllis clapped her hands. "Never you mind, Miss Jenny Ann; here is our home in these little houses until some one comes to find us," she declared undaunted.

"Hurrah for Phil!" cried Madge, catching her chum's spirit. Then, seeing the chaperon's expression, she went up to her and put her arms about her. "See here, Miss Jenny Ann, you are not to worry over us. We are going to have a good time. As long as we have got into this scrape, let's make the best of it. Don't you see it is rather a lark. Of course, I am sorry that our families and friends will be so dreadfully worried about us. But some one is sure to rescue us in a few days. We can keep our signals of distress fastened on to the houseboat and move up here to live. I am beginning to believe that this is a small island that is used for duck shooting. We have run across two hunting lodges. The duck shooting begins the first week in November."

"November!" cried Miss Jenny Ann in horror. "Why, children, we will starve to death unless we are rescued before that time."

Madge and Eleanor laughed.

"Miss Jenny Ann does not know the woods at this time of the year, does she?" protested Eleanor. "We can play at being squirrels and live on nuts as soon as a frost comes."

"'There are as many fish in the sea as ever were caught'," quoted Lillian gayly.

"And crabs," added Phil. "And rabbits and birds and goodness knows what-all in the woods. Why, it is a perfectly wonderful adventure! Suppose we are alone on this island? I'll wager you no American girls ever had an experience like this before."

It was a weary trip back to the houseboat, but there were so many plans to be made for this pioneer existence. The girls decided that they intended to play at being their own great-great grandmothers. They were settlers who had just landed on the shores of a new country. They must prove that they had the old fighting blood of their ancestors.

At the edge of the wood Madge gallantly seized hold of a good-sized log, dragging it toward the shore in the direction of the houseboat.

"What ho, my hearty?" questioned Phil, coming to her assistance. "What do you intend to do with this tree?"

"Kindly refer to your 'Robinson Crusoe' and your 'Swiss Family Robinson' and you will know. We must make a kind of raft, so that we can go back and forth to the houseboat without getting wet every time we go aboard."

Miss Jones, Lillian and Eleanor managed to haul another log of nearly equal size. On the shore the girls lashed the two logs together with short ends of their precious clothes line.

Madge took off her shoes and stockings, pinned up her skirts, and, getting down on her knees, with a stick for a paddle, started forth on her raft. She claimed the honor of the first trip, since the idea had first been hers.

The raft reached the "Merry Maid" in safety. She rose to wave her hands in triumph, but she rested too much of her weight at one end of the logs. The raft tipped gently and she plunged head first into the sea.

"Splendid way to keep from getting wet, Madge!" sang out Phil.

However, after a time, the raft did help. There were a hatchet, a hammer and some nails on the houseboat; a few odd lengths of rope and heavy twine, as well as the straps from the trunks. By nightfall the girls had made a raft of some pretensions. It served to bring more of their grocery supplies to the land. By wading on either side of it to keep it from tipping, Madge and Phil managed to steer one of their trunks to the shore.

At Eleanor's suggestion a few extra sheets were carried off the houseboat. Then Miss Jenny Ann and Nellie set themselves seriously to work to make a cable for the "Merry Maid." They divided their sheets into good, broad strips; using six, instead of three strands, they plaited them into a fairly strong rope. They must run no risk of losing the houseboat. It must not be allowed to drift away for the second time.

The girls were tired and hungry at bedtime, though not one whit discouraged. It would take some time to move what they needed from the houseboat to the lodge in the wood. But they were equal to the task, and found it good sport.

Miss Jenny Ann continued to worry over the prospect ahead of them. Would they be forced to spend the winter on this deserted island? How could they? They would perish from hunger and cold. Would their families give them up for lost? How would Miss Tolliver ever open her school at Harborpoint without her four favorite pupils and one of her teachers?

For a few days these dreadful ideas continued to haunt Miss Jones. The girls may have thought of them, but they did not talk of them. Indeed, they were far too busy. Pioneer life was strenuous. They found little time for fretting.



CHAPTER XIII

LIFE IN THE WOODS

It was wonderful how quickly they adapted themselves to their new mode of life. A few days later Phyllis, with a rifle slung over one shoulder and a dead rabbit over the other, was striding along through a dense thicket of trees. Her face was tanned, her cheeks were crimson. She was whistling cheerily.

"Won't Madge be proud of me?" she murmured half aloud. "Ten days ago I had never fired a gun in my life. Now I have killed this poor little bunny. Beg your pardon, bunny, I never would have shot you, but we really had to have something to eat for dinner to-night. It was your life or ours."

The woods were brown and gold. A heavy frost had fallen early in the autumn. The little spot of earth through which Phyllis Alden wandered was empty of other human beings; it looked as though it might have been created for her alone.

A sudden sound in the underbrush startled Phyllis. She clutched her rifle and brought it to position. There was no further movement.

"I ought not to have come so deep into the woods alone," she thought. "I believe I am beginning to suppose that we are living in the Garden of Eden, and that there is no one alive in the world except Miss Jenny Ann and we four girls."

Phil moved on. Something stirred again. Phil felt her gaze drawn by a pair of big, soft, brown eyes that surveyed her with a fixed stare of horror. It was a wistful, penetrating gaze. Phil had never seen anything like it before.

"Who's there?" called Phil. There was no answer, and no movement in the underbrush. Phil moved cautiously toward the pair of eyes, that never ceased to stare at her. Still the figure back of them made no movement.

The underbrush was so thick that Phyllis could not possibly see what she was approaching. When she was within a short distance of it the little creature collapsed and dropped with a soft flop on the ground at her feet. It was a tiny baby fawn.

"You poor, pretty thing!" exclaimed Phil impulsively, stooping to look more closely at the fawn, which was shivering with terror and hunger. Then Phil, in spite of her lately acquired skill with the rifle, looked fearfully about her.

The girls in their long rambles through the woods had observed several times, from afar, the antlers of a red deer, with her hind grazing quietly beside her. They had never gone near enough to be in any danger. And they had seen no other animals in the woods in the daytime except the wild hare and the squirrels. Only at night the screech of the wildcats in the forests had penetrated behind the closed doors of their sleeping lodge.

Phyllis knew that a deer will seldom risk an attack, but that it will make a tremendous fight in defence of its young. Phil had no idea of being sacrificed, so she edged carefully away, gazing in every direction through the trees. There was no sign of any other deer.

By some chance the mother deer must have wandered off in the forest after food and died. Nothing else could have made her leave her fawn long enough to cause it so nearly to perish from cold and hunger.

What could Phil do? She was afraid to pick the fawn up for fear she had been mistaken in her surmise. Yet it seemed too cruel to leave the beautiful little creature to perish. If Phil wished to save it, how could she manage it? She already carried their beloved rifle, which, with a supply of ammunition, had been their lucky discovery in the hunting lodge. Bunny was not to be thrown away. He meant dinner for the houseboat party. The deer was small and thin, yet it was a good armful. Phil might have shot the tiny fawn and so spared it the misery of slowly starving to death. Hunters, who care little for the lives of the creatures in the woods, declare that it is difficult to shoot a deer, once it has gazed with its wistful, trusting look into one's eyes. What chance had tender-hearted Phil, with her dread of having anything in the world suffer, against the appeal of the forsaken creature?

"Oh, me, oh, my! I suppose I must take you home to our lodge to take care of," relented Phil, "though I am sure that Miss Jenny Ann will not rejoice at another mouth to feed."

Phil carefully emptied the barrels of her rifle so as not to endanger her own life. She took some stout twine out of her pocket and swung her rabbit around her neck. She fastened her gun to her side in awkward fashion with another piece of cord, so as to leave both arms almost free.

Then Phil stooped and picked up the poor little fawn. It struggled at first and kicked its feeble legs. But after a little it was too weak and feeble for further resistance. It lay quite still.

In spite of this, Phil's return home began to grow difficult. She had never carried such an uncomfortable baby before. Yet she had often shouldered the twins at home, and had borne them both, kicking and wriggling with delight, about the garden. But this burden was such an odd and unaccustomed shape!

Phyllis sat down on a log under a chestnut tree and regaled herself with chestnuts while she rested. She was beginning to be afraid she would be late for luncheon at their lodge and she was ravenously hungry. Perhaps one of the girls would come out to look for her.

Miss Jenny Ann and her girls had been living an enchanted life for the past fortnight. Not a single human being had they seen since their strange arrival on the unknown island. They had been deep into the woods on both sides of their lodges. They had wandered up and down the shore that sheltered their deserted "Merry Maid." But they had not yet crossed to the opposite side of the island. The way was jungle-like and untrodden. Miss Jenny Ann feared that, once lost, they would never find their way back to their shelter again. So far she hoped for rescue from a ship that must some day pass within range of the island. She believed the other shore to be as deserted as the one on which the "Merry Maid" had landed.

"Madge and Lillian must have finished with their fishing hours ago," reflected Phil. "I must not be so lazy; I must hurry along home."

Phyllis had placed her burden on the ground. She leaned over to pick it up. A sound of human voices smote her ear. The voices were not those of any member of the houseboat party. They were the voices of men.

Phil was startled—the sound was so unexpected and surprising. Without an instant's hesitation she slipped behind the giant chestnut tree and crouched low on the ground. The men were coming nearer. She had not been dreaming. It occurred to Phyllis at once that these men must be game-keepers, who had been sent to explore the island to see if any one had been shooting the game before the hunting season opened. And here was Phyllis Alden with a dead rabbit swung over one shoulder and a live fawn in her arms!

Had Phil stopped to consider she might have known that she could easily explain her presence to the men. But she did not stop to think, for she was much too frightened.

One of the men had a dark, uncompromising face. The other Phil did not see distinctly.

The men evidently believed the island as deserted as Phyllis had thought it before their appearance.

"It's a forsaken hole," one of the men said to the other. "For my part, I'll be glad when we are through with this business. I've no taste for it. I wish it were finished."

"Oh, the job's easy, if it is slow," the other man answered. "You ain't used to the things I am."

The men tramped on without dreaming of Phil or of her hiding place.

Once they were out of sight, Phyllis realized how foolish she had been. She called after them, but they were now out of hearing. Phil felt ashamed of herself. Why had she been afraid of these two men? Could she go to the lodge and say to Miss Jenny Ann that she had let a possible chance of rescue pass by them?

Phil decided to linger in the woods no longer. No matter if her arms and her back did ache she must hurry back to tell Madge of the apparition she had seen.

"Phil Alden! Phil Alden!" Phyllis heard a clear voice calling to her. Then she heard the violent ringing of their cherished dinner-bell.

"Here I am to the left," she shouted back. "Come here and help me carry these things."

Madge pushed her way through the bushes, radiant and glowing with health.

"For mercy's sake, Phil Alden, what have you there?" she demanded, taking Phil's rifle and the dead rabbit, but looking askance at her live offering.

"I am ashamed of myself," apologized Phil, "but I found this beautiful little thing starving to death, in the woods. Do you think Miss Jenny Ann will mind if I take care of it and feed it until it is old enough to look after itself?"

"Of course not, Phil. But what do you expect to feed your adopted deer on? It seems to me that a little fawn like that must prefer milk as an article of diet, and we have found no cows on the island—up to the present." Madge patted the top of the fawn's soft head while she teased her chum.

Phil was thrown into consternation. "Gracious, Madge, you are right!" she agreed. "I never thought of it. But you know we are still having oatmeal for our breakfast. I'll ask Miss Jenny Ann to let me give my share to the fawn. Before the porridge gives out I expect we shall be rescued, or my baby will be grown-up enough to take care of itself."

Phil pronounced the word "rescued" in such fashion that Madge stopped in her forward march to question her.

"Out with it, Phil! You have something on your mind," she declared. "You might as well tell me."

After Phil had finished her story of seeing the men the two girls agreed not to mention Phil's encounter in the woods to Miss Jenny Ann or to the other two girls until they had had more time to think things over.