"If I go through the parlor and out the side door, Aunt Kate will hear me," thought Nan. "That won't do at all."

She looked at the further window. Outside the rain was pattering and there was absolutely no light. In the pocket of her raincoat Nan had slipped the electric torch she had brought from home, something of which Aunt Kate cordially approved, and was always begging Uncle Henry to buy one like it.

The pocket lamp showed her the fastenings of the screen. Tom had made it to slide up out of the way when she wanted to open or close the sash. And, as far as she could see, any one could open it from the outside as easily as from the room itself.

"And that's just what she did," decided Nan. "How foolish of me not to think of it before."

With this enigmatical observation Nan prepared to leave the room by this very means. She was agile, and the sill of the window was only three feet from the ground. It was through this opening that she had helped Margaret Llewellen into her room on the first occasion that odd child had visited her.

Nan jumped out, let the screen down softly, and hurried across the unfenced yard to the road. She knew well enough when she reached the public track, despite the darkness for the mirey clay stuck to her shoes and made the walking difficult.

She flashed her lamp once, to get her bearings, and then set off down the lane toward the swamp road. There was not a light in any house she passed, not even in Mr. Fen Llewellen's cottage. "I guess Margaret's fast asleep," murmured Nan, as she passed swiftly on.

The rain beat down upon the girl steadily, and Nan found it shivery out here in the dark and storm. However, her reason for coming, Nan conceived, was a very serious one. This was no foolish escapade.

By showing her light now and then she managed to follow the dark lane without stepping off into any of the deep puddles which lay beside the path. She came, finally, to the spot where Rafe had met her and Tom with his lantern that evening. Here stood the great tree with a big hollow in it, Margaret Llewellen's favorite playhouse.

For a moment Nan hesitated. The place looked so dark and there might be something alive in the hollow.

But she plucked up courage and flashed her lamp into it. The white ray played about the floor of the hollow. The other Llewellen children dared not come here, for Margaret punished them if they disturbed anything belonging to her.

What Nan was looking for was not in sight. She stepped inside, and raised the torch. The rotting wood had been neatly scooped out, and where the aperture grew smaller at the top a wide shelf had been made by the ingenious Margaret. Nan had never been in this hide-out before.

"It must be here! It must be here!" she kept telling herself, and stood on her tiptoes to feel along the shelf, which was above her head.

Nan discovered nothing at first. She felt along the entire length of the shelf again. Nothing!

"I know better!" she almost sobbed. "My dear, beautiful."

She jumped up, feeling back on the shelf with her right hand. Her fingers touched something, and it was not the rotting wood of the tree!

"It's there!" breathed the excited girl. She flashed her lamp around, searching for something to stand upon. There in the corner was a roughly made footstool.

In a moment Nan had the footstool set in position, and had stepped upon it. Her hand darted to the back of the shelf. There was a long box, a pasteboard box.

Nan dropped her lamp with a little scream of ecstasy, and of course the light went out. But she had the long box clasped in her arms. She could not wait to get home with it, but tumbled off the stool and sat down upon it, picked up the torch, held it so the round spot-light gave her illumination, and untied the string.

Off came the cover. She peeped within. The pink and white loveliness of Beulah's wax features peered up at her.

In fifteen minutes Nan was back in her room, without being discovered by anybody, and with the doll safely clasped in her arms. Indeed, she went to bed a second time that night with her beloved playmate lying on the pillow beside her, just as she had done when a little girl.

"I suppose I'm foolish," she confessed to Aunt Kate the next morning when she told her about it. "But I loved Beulah so much when I was little that I can't forget her now. If I go to Lakeview Hall I'm going to take her with me. I don't care what the other girls say!"

"You are faithful in your likes, child," said Aunt Kate nodding. "'Tis a good trait. But I'd like to lay that Marg'ret Llewellen across my knee, for her capers."

"And I didn't think she cared for dolls," murmured Nan.

But it was young Bob who betrayed the mysterious reason for his sister's act.

"Huh!" he said, with a boy's disgust for such things. "Mag's crazy about pretty faces, if they're smooth, an' pink. She peeked into that Sherwood gal's room and seed her playin' doll; then she had ter have it for herself 'cause it was so pretty and had a smooth face, not like the kids' dolls that Aunt Matildy buyed."

Poor little Margaret was greatly chagrined at the discovery of her secret. She ran away into the woods whenever she saw Nan coming, for a long time thereafter. It took weeks for the girl from Tillbury to regain the half-wild girl's confidence again.

Nan was just as busy and happy as she could be, considering the uncertain news from Scotland and Uncle Henry's unfortunate affair with Gedney Raffer. She helped Aunt Kate with the housework early every morning so that they might both hurry into the woods to pick berries.

Pine Camp was in the midst of a vast huckleberry country, and at the Forks a cannery had been established. Beside, the Forks was a big shipping centre for the fresh berries.

Uncle Henry bought crates and berry "cups," and sometimes the whole family picked all day long in the berry pasture, taking with them a cold luncheon, and eating it picnic fashion.

It was great fun, Nan thought, despite the fact that she often came home so wearied that her only desire was to drop into bed. But the best part of it, the saving grace of all this toil, was the fact that she was earning money for herself! Account was faithfully kept of every cup of berries she picked, and, when Uncle Henry received his check from the produce merchant to whom he shipped the berries, Nan was paid her share.

These welcome earnings she saved for a particular purpose, and for no selfish one, you may be sure. Little Margaret Llewellen still ran from her and Nan wished to win the child back; so she schemed to do this.

After all, there was something rather pitiful in the nature of the child who so disliked any face that was "wizzled," but loved those faces that were fair and smooth.

Margaret only possessed a feeling that is quite common to humanity; she being such a little savage, she openly expressed an emotion that many of us have, but try to hide.

The Llewellen children picked berries, of course, as did most of the other neighbors. Pine Camp was almost a "deserted village" during the season when the sweet, blue fruit hung heavy on the bushes.

Sometimes the Sherwood party, and the Llewellens, would cross each others' paths in the woods, or pastures; but little Margaret always shrank into the background. If Nan tried to surprise her, the half wild little thing would slip away into the deeper woods like one of its own denizens.

Near the river one day Margaret had an experience that should have taught her a lesson, however, regarding wandering alone in the forest. And the adventure should, too, have taught the child not to shrink so from an ugly face.

Nan had something very important to tell Margaret. Her savings had amounted to quite a goodly sum and in the catalog of a mail-order house she had found something of which she wished to secure Margaret's opinion. The child, as usual, ran away when they met, and even Bob could not bring her back.

"She's as obstinate as dad's old mu-el," grunted the disgusted boy. "Can't do a thing with her, Nan Sherwood."

"I'll just get her myself!" declared Nan, laughing, and she started into the thicker woods to circumvent Margaret. She did not follow the river as the smaller girl had, but struck into the bush, intending to circle around and head Margaret off.

She had not pushed her way through the clinging vines and brush for ten minutes before she heard somebody else in the jungle. She thought it was the little girl, at first; then she caught sight of a man's hat and knew that Margaret did not wear a hat at all.

"Goodness! Who can that be?" thought Nan. She was a little nervous about approaching strange people in the wood; although at this season there was nothing to apprehend from stragglers, there were so many berry pickers within call.

Nan did not seek to overtake the man, however, and would have kept on in her original direction, had she not heard a cry and a splitting crash toward the river bank. Some accident had happened, and when Nan heard the scream repeated, she was sure that the voice was that of Margaret.

So she set off directly, on a run, tearing her dress and scratching her hands and face, but paying no attention to either misfortune. She only wanted to get to the scene of the accident and lend her aid, if it was needed.

And it would have been needed if it had not been for the man whose hat she had seen a few moments before. He made his passage through the bush much quicker than could Nan, and when the latter reached an opening where she could see the river, the stranger was just leaping into the deep pool under the high bank.

It was plain to be seen what had happened. A sycamore overhung the river and somebody had climbed out upon a small branch to reach a few half-ripened grapes growing on a vine that ran up the tree.

The branch had split, drooping downward, and the adventurous grape-gatherer had been cast into the water.

"Oh, Margaret!" screamed Nan, confident that it was the reckless child that was in peril.

She hurried to the brink of the low bluff, from which the rescuer had plunged. He had already seized the child (there was an eddy here under the bank) and was striking out for the shore. Nan saw his wet face, with the bedraggled hair clinging about it.

It was the awfully scarred face of Injun Pete; but to the excited Nan, at that moment, it seemed one of the most beautiful faces she had ever seen!

The Indian reached the bank, clung to a tough root, and lifted up the gasping Margaret for Nan to reach. The girl took the child and scrambled up the bank again; by the time she was at the top, Injun Pete was beside her.

"She not hurt, Little missy," said the man, in his soft voice, and turning his face so that Nan should not see it. "She just scared."

Margaret would not even cry. She was too plucky for that. When she got her breath she croaked:

"Put me down, Nan Sherwood. I ain't no baby."

"But you're a very wet child," said Nan, laughing, yet on the verge of tears herself. "You might have been drowned, you WOULD have been had it not been for Mr. Indian Pete."

"Ugh!" whispered Margaret. "I seen him when I come up out o' that nasty water. I wanted to go down again."

"Hush, Margaret!" cried Nan, sternly. "You must thank him."

The man was just then moving away. He shook himself like a dog coming out of the stream, and paid no further attention to his own wet condition.

"Wait, please!" Nan called after him.

"She all right now," said the Indian.

"But Margaret wants to thank you, don't you, Margaret?"

"Much obleeged," said the little girl, bashfully. "You air all right, you air."

"That all right, that all right," said the man, hurriedly. "No need to thank me."

"Yes, there is," said Nan, insistently. "Come here, please. Margaret wants to kiss you for saving her life."

"Oh!" The word came out of Margaret's lips like an explosion. Nan stared very sternly at her. "If you don't," she said in a low tone, "I'll tell your father all about how you came to fall into the river."

Under this threat Margaret became amenable. She puckered up her lips and stretched her arms out toward Indian Pete. The man stumbled back and fell on his knees beside the two girls. Nan heard the hoarse sob in his throat as he took little Margaret in his arms.

"Bless you! Bless you!" he murmured, receiving the kiss right upon his scarred cheek. But Nan saw that Margaret's eyes were tightly closed as she delivered the caress, per order!

The next moment the man with the scarred face had slipped away and disappeared in the forest. They saw him no more.

However, just as soon as the catalog house could send it, Margaret received a beautiful, pink-cheeked, and flaxen-haired Doll, not as fine as Beulah, but beautiful enough to delight any reasonable child.

Nan had won back Margaret's confidence and affection.

Meanwhile the hot summer was fast passing. Nan heard from her chum, Bess Harley, with commendable regularity; and no time did Bess write without many references to Lakeview Hall.

Nan, advised by her former teacher in Tillbury, had brought her books to Pine Camp, and had studied faithfully along the lines of the high school work. She was sure she could pass quite as good an entrance examination for Lakeview Hall as Bess could.

And at last good news came from Scotland:

"I am not quite ready to bring Momsey home," Papa Sherwood wrote. "But the matter of her fortune is at least partially settled. The claims of the other relatives have been disallowed. Mr. Andrew Blake is prepared to turn over to your Momsey a part of her wonderful fortune. The rest will come later. She will tell you all about it herself.

"What I wish to say to you particularly in this letter," pursued Mr. Sherwood, "is, that arrangements have been made for you to attend Lakeview Hall this coming semester. You will meet your friend, Elizabeth Harley, in Chicago, and will go with her to the school. I am writing by this mail to the principal of the Hall. Mr. Harley has made all other necessary arrangements for you."

"Oh!" cried Nan, clasping her hands. "It's too good to be true! It can't be possible! I just know I'll wake up in a minute and find all this an exciting dream, and that's all!"

But Nan was wrong on that point, as the reader will see if her further adventures are followed in the next volume of the series, entitled, "Nan Sherwood at Lakeview Hall, or, The Mystery of the Haunted Boathouse."

While Nan was still intensely excited over this letter from Scotland, Toby Vanderwiller drove up to the Sherwood house behind his broken-kneed pony. This was the first time any of the Sherwoods had seen him since the day of the big storm and the fire in the sawdust.



Chapter XXX. OFF FOR LAKEVIEW HALL

Nan ran out immediately to speak to the old lumberman; but Toby was calling for Uncle Henry:

"Hey, Hen! Hen Sherwood! Come out yere," he cried.

Uncle Henry halloaed from the stables, and came striding at the call. Nan reached the old rattletrap wagon first.

"Oh, Mr. Vanderwiller!" she said. "I am glad to see you! And how is your wife and Corson?"

He looked down at her reflectively, and for a moment did not say a word. Then he swallowed something and said, jerkily:

"An' you're the one that done it all, Sissy! The ol' woman an' the boy air as chipper as bluejays. An' they air a honin' for a sight on you."

"Yes. I haven't been over lately. But that man from Chicago came, didn't he?"

"I sh'd say 'yes'! He come," said Toby, in awe. "An' what d'ye s'pose? He done buyed a heap of Corson's spec'mens an' paid him more'n a hundred dollars for 'em. And that ain't countin' that there dead-head butterfly ye made sech a time about.

"I reckoned," pursued Toby, "that you was right crazy about that there bug. One bug's as bad as another to my way of thinkin'. But it seems that Chicago feller thinked dif'rent."

"It really was one of the very rare death's-head moths?" cried Nan, delighted.

"So he said. And he was willin' ter back up his belief with cold cash," declared Toby, smiting his leg for emphasis. "He paid us harnsome for it; and he said he'd take a lot more spec'mens if—

"Har! Here ye be, Hen," he added, breaking off to greet Nan's uncle. "I got suthin' to say to you. I kin say it now, for I ain't beholden ter nobody. With what me and the ol' woman had scrimped and saved, an' what this feller from Chicago give Corson, I done paid off my debt to ol' Ged Raffer, an' the little farm's free and clear."

"I'm glad to hear it, Tobe," Uncle Henry declared, shaking hands with the old lumberman again. "I certain sure am glad to hear it! I'm pleased that you shouldn't have that worry on your mind any longer."

"And it has been a worry," said Old Toby, shaking his head. "More'n you think for. Ye see, it snarled me all up so's I warn't my own master."

"I see."

"Ye see, Ged was allus after me to go inter court an' back up his claim ag'in you on that Perkins Tract."

"I see," said Henry Sherwood again, nodding.

"On the other hand, you wanted me, if I knowed which was right, to witness, too. If I'd witnessed for Ged, ev'rybody wuld ha' thought I done it because he had a mortgage on the farm."

"I s'pose so," admitted Uncle Henry.

"Or, if I helped you, they'd ha' thought you'd bribed me—mebbe helped me git square with Ged."

"I couldn't. Too poor just now," said Uncle Henry, grimly. "But I'd the mind for it, Toby."

"Well, there ye be. Whichever way the cat jumped, I'd lost the respect of the community," said the old lumberman. "But now I am independent, I don't give a dern!"

Mr. Sherwood looked at him expectantly. Toby's "wizzled" face shone.

"I got a debt owin' to that leetle gal you got here, and somethin' to pay off to Tommy, too. But money won't do it, ef I had money. I am goin' to tell what I know about that boundary, though, Hen, and it will do YOU good! I can find another old feller, livin' down Pale Lick way, that can corroborate my evidence.

"You can git that injunction vacated at once, Hen, if you want, and put your axe-men right back into the Perkins Tract to work. That's what I come 'round to tell ye."

Aunt Kate was moved to tears, an unusual expression of emotion on her part. Being of pioneer stock, and having suffered much in the past, Nan's aunt was not easily moved. Uncle Henry was delighted. It was a great day for the Sherwoods.

It was another great day when, a week later, the roan ponies were brought to the door and Nan's trunk was strapped upon the back of the buckboard. Uncle Henry was to drive her to the train; but she would travel alone to Chicago to meet her chum, Bess Harley.

"And go to Lakeview Hall! I never did really expect I'd get there," Nan sighed, as she clung to Aunt Kate's neck. "It almost makes me forget that Momsey and Papa Sherwood are not at home yet.

"But, my dear!" she added, "if such a thing could be, you and Uncle Henry have taken the place of my own dear parents all these months I have been at Pine Camp. I've had a dee-lightful time. I'll never forget you all. I love you, love you, love you."

The roan ponies started on the jump. The boys cheered her from the corner of the house, having bashfully remained in the background. Even Margaret Llewellen and her impish brother, Bob, appeared and shrilly bade her goodbye.

Nan was off for school, and wonderful adventures lay before her!

THE END