"Well, what's the trouble, girls?" she asked. "Running away from the new moon?"

"No, Auntie," Cleo replied, "but we thought we saw someone back of the tree—a man, and when he saw us he seemed to hide. Where's Michael?"

"I'll call him if you are timid, but we are going to have some gentlemen callers this evening. Maybe you are running away from one of them," she said with a light laugh. "But you girls set such store by Michael, I am afraid I shall have to have the garage moved up nearer the house. Never mind, our good watchman will be home soon. Uncle Guy will be in Chicago this week," she finished with an inflexion of pleasure anticipated.

Cleo was just deciding she must get her letter off to her Uncle Guy's hotel quickly, as she calculated wisely he would give more attention to a letter than he would be able to give to conversation for some days after his home-coming.

Leaving her guests for a few moments, Mrs. Dunbar touched the call button for Michael, and when he came up the path Cleo and Mary went to meet him. They told him the shadow story, of course, even offered to go down the walk and point out the tree, but he declined their assistance.

"Now, I'll tell you girls," he said, shaking his head as he always did when uttering an important fact, "we have a special watchman guarding this place and maybe it was him" (he might have said he, but grammar is not so important to a handy man as are good tools, and Michael always had these).

"Oh, a watchman!" exclaimed Cleo. "I'm so glad. Now, Mary dear, don't you go climbing any more trees," she warned with a pinch for Mary's elbow.

"No, you had better all behave," added Michael, "for our man is a regular hawk for night watching. I had to introduce him to Shep; knows his step clear down the road. Not that he makes a sound we can hear, but a dog, you know—a dog has ears in his paws, and they hear sounds for a long distance in the ground," he declared.

"I guess so," said Mary, simply, "for I have seen dogs listen to things so far off. But the watchman—would he shoot anyone who came around?" There was anxiety in her voice.

"Well, no," conceded Michael; "he wouldn't exactly shoot first shot; he might fire that over a prowler's head. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," fluttered Mary, "except that my old nurse is odd and doesn't know American ways very well. And if she should come around looking for me, a watchman would not understand her, I'm afraid."

"Tell me what she looks like and I'll post Jim. He's a careful enough chap, but you know, young ladies, we have had some trouble about here lately."

Mary described Reda as best she could, and being assured the man behind the tree was really some passerby and not a prowler, the girls went back to the house to find Grace and Madaline.

The two latter could hardly wait to come down the stairs by steps, so impatient were they to reach Cleo and Mary.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Grace. "Here's a letter for Mary. We picked it up out by the gate. It must have been left there just as we came along. But we couldn't see that it was a letter until we got into the light. Here, Mary," and she handed over a square, common business envelope. "It is only addressed to 'Maid Mary,'" finished Grace.

"Come on up to our room, to my room," suggested Cleo, surmising the letter might be better read privately. "Aunt Audrey has guests on the porch."

"All right," agreed Mary, crushing the letter in her hands. "Come along, girls. Whatever it is we may all know it, I don't want any new secrets; the old ones are heavy enough burdens."

Up in Cleo's room, under the softly shaded light, Mary tore open the envelope. She knew the hand was laboriously penned by some foreigner. Then she read aloud:

"Reda is sick. She says you can't come here, but wants her things. Send the box by express. Reda will come out when she can walk.

"Carmia Frantez."

An address was carefully spelled out, and there followed this postscript.

"I go to school, and we don't want Janos to get our letters. Dominic is going to take this out on the train; he is a good honest boy. Answer to this house by the number I give here. Carmia."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, staring at her companions. "That must have been the man we saw behind the tree. And this Carmia is a little girl I have heard Reda speak of. Now what shall I do! Poor Reda!" she sighed. "I hope she is not very sick."

"Let's go the first thing in the morning to pack her box," suggested Cleo. "Then we can send it to her by express," and this plan was promptly decided upon.



CHAPTER XIX

HIDDEN TREASURES

A feeling akin to relief, if not that of actual safety, brightened the girls next day when, with keen anticipation for the promised excitement, they started off for a hike to the studio, there to box up Reda's belongings, and also to hunt for possible clews to the ever-deepening mystery of Mary's identity, and the professor's secret.

Having assured Mrs. Dunbar that the next door neighbors to the studio were easily within call, as well as convincing her that gardeners and workmen were constantly in the fields and estates adjoining the studio, she consented to their going in charge of Shep, who was now fully recovered from his wound and lame leg.

It was early, and the dew still lay in a liquid veil over the grass and wild flowers along the way, but the Girl Scouts, Mary being a novice and on probation, were too much interested and excited to observe the beauties of nature this day.

"I suppose Reda has lots of queer things," ventured Madaline when they had passed the mountain house and started on the down-grade the other side.

"Yes," replied Mary. "She was always bringing things from New York. Her sort of people never seem to have enough. They keep storing and piling up every sort of trash. Grandie would get out of patience at times and threaten to throw it all out of doors."

Tangles of wild morning glories crept cautiously over the steps at the studio, where now the absence of human traffic was beginning to show in that vague, venturesome way vegetation has of creeping in where mortals have deserted. The grass grew so much higher on the lawn, the flowers were having such a joyous time spreading all over and blooming as they chose, while the trumpet vine had actually climbed down from its arch with the ramblers, and was shamelessly romping all over the fern patch, fairly strangling the wild maidenhairs in its reckless ramblings.

"Where shall we begin?" Cleo asked as the girls tramped into the long, quiet hall. "Isn't it cave-like to come into an empty house? Oh, I know; see the hall clock has stopped ticking, and when a tick goes out it seems to leave a smoke of silence," she finished. "There, don't you think I have an imaginative brain?"

"I'd call it a loony brain," replied Grace. "Talking about the smoke of silence! Sounds like a new name for a cigarette!" and they all enjoyed a good laugh at the comparison.

"At any rate," decided Cleo, "it is always more quiet after a clock stops than it is in any other room where no clock ever ticked. So there!"

"Let's wind the clock, start it up, and stop the argument," proposed practical Grace. "Tell me how many winds, Mary!" She had climbed on a wooden chair, had the door of the big clock open, and was examining the queer mechanism.

"I don't know a thing about the clock," Mary admitted. "Grandie always attended to it, but I suppose you just turn the key until it feels hard to turn. I have always heard a clock must not be wound too tight——"

At the side of the grandfather's antique time-piece a long door opened, Grace discovered, and being interested in the odd piece of furniture, she swung this out. As she did so a package rolled out on the floor.

"Something stored away here, I suppose," said Grace. "Shall I replace it, Mary?" picking up the newspaper package and holding it out to Mary.

"Let me see it?" Mary asked.

It was a long, slim package, wrapped in a faded and yellow newspaper. Unfolding the wrappings, nothing but a piece of bamboo-like cane, about as large as a flute, was revealed.

"That's queer," Mary commented. "I wonder what good that old piece of stick is?" She held it up and saw that the ends were sealed.

"Something is bottled up in that," declared Cleo. "Bamboo is always open and hollow between joints."

"Let's get something and press the ends in," suggested Grace. "It might be something breakable."

"Or explosive," ventured Madaline, who had not forgotten her first night's experience at the studio.

Mary was turning the piece of cane upside down, shaking it, listening for any rattle within, and otherwise examining it most carefully. Meanwhile Cleo had rescued the wrappings, and was trying to connect the line of print. She smoothed out the torn, yellow pieces, and presently her eye fell upon a ringed line paragraph, the ring being a penciled circle, usually made to attract the eye to a special item.

"Let's see what's marked here," she suggested, going closer to the window for better light. "Oh, look, Mary," she exclaimed again, "this tells of an exploring expedition leaving New York. Maybe that is a report of your folks and the professor! See, it reads," and she pressed the very much crinkled pieces to something of smoothness.

"'Left for the tropics to hunt orchids. Professor Blake and party——' Now, that's torn out into a real hole, and we can't get the names of the party. Did you ever see anything so aggravating?"

"But Professor Blake," repeated Mary. "That isn't our professor!"

"Didn't you say his name was not Benson?" Cleo reminded her.

"Yes, I knew it was not Benson, but I thought it was," she hesitated. Her grandie had not given his permission to the publication of his real name. "At least," continued Mary, "I didn't know it was Blake."

"How foolish we are!" exclaimed Cleo. "Surely there would have been more than one professor on that trip. And this may only, after all, be an item of general interest. But don't you think, Mary, we had better take it along and read it carefully when we have time?"

"That's a good idea," agreed Mary, "and I think I had better do the same thing with this shiny stick. It may be some kind of flute, but I would not like to try to blow on it. So many things from the tropics are poisonous. Let's wrap it up again," she suggested.

"But not in this paper," objected Cleo. "I want to read all of this again, and it must not be further damaged. Here, Shep," to the faithful dog, who lay nose deep in a big soft rug, "come along and I'll get you a nice cool drink. You are cooled off now, and I know you want a drink after that tramp over the mountain."

The shaggy shepherd dog followed Cleo to the faucet that dripped on a stone flagging near the back door. He drank the pan of water Cleo drew for him, shook himself vigorously, then started in for a "sniffing tour," as Madaline described the canine method of investigation. He was left quite alone and to his own resources while the girls continued in their attempt to gather up Reda's things.

"I feel queer to go among her trinkets," said Mary. "She was always so careful no one should see her belongings."

"All old people are that way," said Madaline, who was having the time of her life pulling trash out of the big rattan trunk. "You don't intend to send all this stuff, do you, Mary?" she asked.

"Oh, no, certainly not," Mary replied, "but it is rather hard to tell the hay from grass in Reda's wardrobe."

"And I must say," put in Grace, "she had a queer idea of the uses of a bureau. Just look at all the moldy roots and growing things!" Grace was gingerly touching the "moldy things" in a rather vain attempt at exploring the depths of the old mahogany bureau drawers.

"Don't throw any of those away," warned Mary, "because—well, because they might grow into pretty orchids, you know," she finished, with such a poor attempt at disguising her real meaning that it almost shouted out past her actual words.

"Of course they must be flower bulbs," assented Grace, "but fancy keeping them in a bureau drawer!"

Bits of bright ribbons, odds and ends of lace, so much lace of all kinds, and such a tangle of threads, strings, tapes and almost everything that could snarl up, was dragged out by Madaline from a work box, that she jammed the whole mass back in despair. "She won't need any of that," Cleo decided, "and I guess some new sewing stuff will be welcome whenever Reda gets a chance to use it."

"But she must have her thimble," insisted Mary. "Just wait until I get this dress and shawl in the box, and I'll try to find it—I think she kept it there."

"Oh, look here," called Madaline. "Here is a cute little secret place in the work box. See, the top comes out when you press here." As she pressed the indicated spot in the finely inlaid box a secret drawer shot out. This was literaly crammed with papers, printed and written, and even here were the remains of the dried roots, the dust of bulbs, and the powder of dried leaves.

"Should we look over her papers?" asked Madaline, again referring to Mary.

"Well, I don't believe we should," decided the girl, whose face was flushed with the excitement of the hunt. "Yet they might be important to Grandie. Suppose we tie them up in something and save them until he is strong enough to look over them? He brought Reda here penniless, and without any belongings, and whatever she has he would have a perfect right to look over," finished Mary.

"I think so, too," agreed Madaline, evidently disappointed her find had not yielded some exciting clew.

Gathering up the papers, a picture fell to the floor. Madaline quickly recovered it, and presently all the girls were scrutinizing the photograph.

"It is you and your mamma," declared Cleo. "Look at both your eyes, and her wonderful mound of hair."

"Yes, that is truly Loved One," said Mary, tenderly brushing the bits of leaves from the picture. "I have never seen this before. I wonder why Reda hid it away from me?"

"And here's another," called Grace. "This is some man dressed as a—tourist—I guess. See his big hat and the short trousers."

"Oh, that's daddy!" cried Mary. "Let me see it. Darling daddy," she exclaimed, grasping the new found treasure and holding it in close scrutiny. "Wasn't he handsome!"

All the girls pored over the picture of the tall, good-looking man, dressed in the light clothing usually worn in warm countries, the big helmet hat pushed back from his face, and his hand resting on a stout bamboo stick.

"See, he has that sort of cane," corrected Cleo. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if it were really a piece of his own walking cane?"

"It really might be," Mary reflected. "Dear me, I do wonder why Reda hid those things? And she must have taken them from Grandie or from my things. They certainly could not have been hers."

On the reverse side of the picture was the name of some photographer in Panama, and having made careful examination without success for possible notes or written names, as might give further information, Mary folded her two pictures carefully, and laid them aside with the bamboo stick.

All this time the girls kept wondering why Mary could not tell them what was the nature of the loss that had so affected the professor. Hiding himself and hiding Mary seemed a strange thing to do, except for some reason that might entail danger in discovery, and what possible danger could there be in two perfectly honest persons using their own names?

"I was to look for Reda's thimble," said Mary, jamming in the trunk some heavy coats and woolens that seemed necessary to take off the clothes hooks. "I guess I had best put all the little things in this flat basket," she decided, opening up a small hand-woven affair, such as girls use for embroidery cases.

Attacking the Philippine work box once more, Mary took all the movable compartments that she could locate by shaking and rattling, and at last found one in the very bottom of the box; released by such a snap spring, it surely must have originally been a trick box.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "Just look here!" and, holding the small tray up to the astonished gaze of the girls, they beheld a glittering array of jewels.

"Oh, how beautiful," called out a voice in which all three were blended.

"These must have been Loved One's!" said Mary, in an awed voice, and her companions, too astonished to speak, simply stared at the glittering treasures.

There were several pins with beautiful sparkling stones, a number of rings, lockets; in fact the collection seemed to include a supply of fine jewelry, such as a woman of means and social prominence might covet.

"However will you carry them?" asked Madaline, first to recover from the surprise.

"I don't know," Mary replied, still dazed and overcome. To her the discovery meant more than a collection of jewelry; it meant that her mother must have been a wealthy and prominent woman. This fact, however, Mary always understood, but in her hands now were seemingly new proofs.

"Let us attend to the orchids to-day, Mary," suggested Grace, "while you finish your packing. Come on, Madie, get the small cans."

"All right," Cleo agreed. "I'll help Mary find something to carry her treasures in, and also help her finish packing. We will then likely all be finished about the same time. What a lot of things we have to look over when we get home! Mary, I am sure some of those lockets will have pictures in them," and all the while she was talking Cleo was running here and there, or hither and thither, as Jennie would have said, in a hurry to finish the tasks.

"I know where I can get a good strong bag," Mary said, "but I haven't been upstairs since we went away. This big bungalow, having the sleeping rooms on the first floor, always seemed complete without upstairs."

"I'm not afraid to go up," Cleo volunteered. "I'll take Shep. Where is he?"

At the sound of his name Shep sprang forward, carrying in his teeth the remnants of a yellow handkerchief he had torn almost to shreds.

"Why, Shep, what are you doing? You never tear things." Cleo charged, attempting to rescue the remains of the yellow silk handkerchief.

But Shep would not release his hold on the rags—instead he growled. Could Cleo have known why, she would have complimented him on being go clever a detective, for the handkerchief was one of Reda's and mate to the one Shep brought in with him the night he received the bullet in his leg. But the girls knew nothing of this.

"Shall we go up for the bag?" Cleo asked Mary, desisting in her efforts to unmask Shep.

"I suppose we better," Mary replied, as they made their way to the end of the hall from which point the hidden stairs were built. "It is so long since I have been up here I shall hardly know what it looks like."

Mary went first and Cleo followed close to her heels. At the top Mary stood still and drew back a little. Then she turned and motioned to Cleo.

"What's the matter?" whispered Cleo, seeing Mary make haste to collect the most important things.

"There are a lot of strange boxes and things up there," Mary said in a hushed voice. "Hark! What was that!"

Both girls stood breathless, afraid to move. Over in a far corner of the long, dark room, something chattered and squeaked, then squealed!

"What ever can it be?" asked Cleo. "It is surely something alive, but I don't know what could make that sort of noise."

"I do," said Mary. "That's a monkey. How do you suppose it got in here?"

"You go over and look, if you are not afraid," suggested Cleo, "and I will stay here to guard Shep. Hear him! He would go wild for a monkey."

A clear line over the boxes, and through the long room showed nothing more sinister than that some small animal could be hidden there, so Mary stepped over the litter, and soon discovered the origin of the queer noise.

"Oh, the dearest little thing!" exclaimed Mary, putting out her arms to the frightened monkey, that immediately crawled into her safekeeping. "How did it get in here?"

"Come on," implored Cleo, fearful someone might be in bidding. "Let us get away. You are not afraid of him?"

"No, indeed. Just see how glad he is that we found him. I wonder how long he has been up here!"

But even a starving monkey would not be sufficient cause for longer delay, so, urging Mary down, Cleo held Shep fast while Grace hurriedly locked the door that led to the second floor of the studio.

Now surely they must make haste to get away.



CHAPTER XX

THE MASCOT'S RESCUE

"Oh, the poor little thing! See how he cuddles up! Wasn't he frightened to death!" and Mary hugged the chattering little animal under her arm, like a short haired terrier, or even an abused and exhausted little kitten. To the other girls it seemed quite impossible to realize this was really a monkey, and the domestic puppy or kitten naturally furnished a comparison.

"Oh, do let's hurry!" begged Madaline. "How do we know someone will not burst in upon us?"

"We don't," replied Cleo, without the hope of reassurance. "But we have to depend on Shep. I think he is behaving beautifully with a real monkey on the premises; no jealousy in good old Shep." She was making all possible haste with picking up the most important articles they had gathered to bring back with them to Cragsnook. "I have your treasures, Mary," she said, making a final hard knot in the shawl that held the jewelry. "The other girls are all ready. Come on, don't let us wait a moment longer," she cautioned.

"Can you carry the cane, and these pictures?" Mary asked. "I guess I can manage them if you cannot."

"Oh, no, you must take care of Chatterbox. He is lively enough to keep you busy. Here, Grace, you shoot the bolts on the doors as we pass out. Come on, Shep. Keep near the ladies, but let them pass out first," finished Cleo, determined to make the exit something of an imitation fire drill, if not in point of the numbers in line, at least in point of the caution applied.

The fright experienced when something "alive" had actually been discovered upstairs supplied enough excitement to make the whole situation extremely alarming. What could have brought a monkey there but humans, and what purpose had anyone in such an exploit? Between the finding of the monkey and the discovery of the jewels, the girls felt their day had thus far been one of unusual thrills, but a sense of actual danger seemed threatening to explode at their very heels now, and, making tracks over the mountain, away from the uncanny studio, they put into execution the Girl Scouts' danger drill, if not the school girls' fire drill. Once away from the house, Mary "collapsed into a dead silence," as Madaline expressed it in a whisper to Grace. Even the monkey's chattering was not answered.

Indeed, Mary was silent, almost to the point of a threatening "mood," since seeing the collection of empty boxes, and her friends were determined she would not relapse into anything so unpleasant. Plainly the boxes were ready to be packed; then the finding of the monkey convinced Mary that strangers had come into the studio, and were making preparations to loot it. Who they were, and just what they "were after, she could only surmise. But it was a most unpleasant surprise, amounting to a shock, and that to come just when things seemed to be shaping so favorably for everyone.

"Certainly I should not think of taking you up there again," said Mary finally, "but what can I do about the orchids?"

"They must be cared for," Madaline said sagely, "but we could never go up there, and perhaps—perhaps——"

"Get packed in one of the boxes, Madie?" teased Grace. "That surely would be dreadful. But don't you worry, Mary-love. We will find a way to take care of the studio until Professor is able to come back. Of course, I don't see how we are ever going to let you go there again, but since we don't have to decide that to-day let us postpone the evil. Too bad we didn't have a chance to look into the boxes; we might have been able to tell where they came from," she reasoned.

"Don't you dare go blaming Mally Mack for furnishing the boxes," objected Cleo. "I am sure no one in Bellaire would give away boxes to steal stuff from the studio," she declared. "At any rate someone has surely been busy up there, and I am glad our wires didn't cross again. Fancy us going up those stairs and seeing a couple of burglars squat among the boxes!"

This calamitous consideration acted as a spur to the romping girls, who were once more discovering short-cuts home from Second Mountain, and joining hands, they raced pell-mell through the daisy field, down to the path that edged the brook.

"I think it is too mean," grumbled Madaline. "We hadn't entirely searched all the places, nooks and boxes and things. We may have left a lot of valuables behind us for the robbers to pack in their boxes."

Everyone laughed at Madaline's literal and explicit surmise. It was characteristic of Madaline that she should stamp a mere guess with a most definite label, but the excitement of the flight with the treasures was too absorbing to admit of this trifle being noticed.

"I hope Aunt Audrey is in," said Cleo. "We must, of course, bring these things to her at once. She will know best what to do with them."

"And we better not mention them to anyone," cautioned Grace, "else we might again be visited with night prowlers."

That the strange child should fall back into a condition such as the scouts first found her in was additional cause for alarm. She scarcely spoke in answer to the questions piled upon her. Who might have been in the studio? What would they ever intend to do with so tiny a little baby monkey? What had they expected to put in all those boxes? Such questions came thicker than the stones they skipped over, but in reply the girls received nothing but skeleton answers from Mary, and these were built of simple, meager words.

"But the orchids? What can we do about them?" Grace insisted. This roused Mary. She was seen to shudder, and heard to sigh before replying:

"Girls, please forgive me for being so rude. But so much is rushing all about me, I can hardly think. I shall never let you go with me to the studio again——"

"Then you shan't go either!" promptly interrupted Cleo. "Your danger would be as great as ours, and we will never leave you until every thread of this mystery is untangled."

"Indeed, we will not," echoed Grace, while Madaline too offered her pledge of loyalty to their new member.

"You are sure the monkey will not bite you?" questioned Cleo, glad to change the subject.

"Oh, no indeed," Mary replied, patting the animal, that now seemed much at home, and quite content, in the hollow of her arm. "They are wise little creatures; we have many of them in South America, and this one seems to be trained."

"Whatever will your aunt say, Cleo?" Grace exclaimed. "Just think of fetching another surprise. We thought the fly catcher plant quite wonderful; but just imagine a real little monkey!"

"Oh, Aunt Audrey loves pets," declared Cleo, "and you see how well she has treated us!"

"I should say so," affirmed Madaline, "and we are pretty noisy pets at that."

"Uncle Guy will be delighted with this monkey, I am sure," continued Cleo, qualifying which monkey she referred to, "that is if he gets home in time, and if we are allowed to keep our chatterbox. Suppose someone takes him from us?"

"Can't have him," objected Grace, attempting to pat the dark spot of fur in Mary's arm. "He's going to be our mascot, aren't you—Peetootie? Wonder what we'll name him?"

"Let's have a real party for him——" But Grace had no time to finish out her party plans, for the roof of Cragsnook now loomed up through the trees.

"Mary," interrupted Cleo, "what do you think will be best to do about the orchids? We are almost home, and I think it would be better to have some suggestion to offer Aunt Audrey."

"Oh, it all seems so hopeless now," sighed Mary, "and just when Grandie is getting better and I felt so—so—happy!"

"Now don't you go worrying like that," Grace put in quickly. "These things are just new—new adventures," she declared, "and you will see how they all help to clear up the big mystery which is back of the whole thing," offered Grace. "Don't you think, Mary, we might get someone to go live in the studio, and take care of it? Someone whom you could trust, of course."

"If we only could—but then, you see, Grandie feels he is guarding something——"

As Mary faltered Cleo filled in the hesitation with a suggestion that they lay the whole story before Mrs. Dunbar and see what she might propose. It struck the girls as queer that the Professor should be "guarding" something in the deserted studio, but they were too considerate of Mary's feelings to press that point.

Cleo was carrying the hand-made basket, and in it the bundle of jewelry, tied up in Reda's black silk shawl, while each of the other girls was burdened with the most important of the articles unearthed in the search at the studio.

"I am so afraid someone may suspect we are carrying valuables," said Grace. "Cleo, do be careful, don't tip your basket, some jewel might slide out."

"No danger. They are all secure in the shawl," replied Cleo.

"Of course it is lovely to have these things if they all prove to be Loved One's," Mary said gently, "but do you know I really believe I care more about the pictures than anything else. They make me feel as if—as if—I just visited with daddy and mother again."

"There's Michael out in the back lots. Let's go through that way and we won't be apt to meet people on the road," suggested Grace, plainly anxious to get the jewels into Cragsnook without any possibility of molestation.

Greeting Michael pleasantly, they were attempting to hurry along, past the garage, when he called them to wait a moment.

"If you are going up to the house," he said, "would you mind telling Jennie that my cousin got in from Long Island to-day—a woman looking for a place out here? And ask Jennie if she can make room for her until I get a chance to look around for a place. I am sorry she came without giving me more time, but I just got the card on this mail."

"Certainly, Michael," offered Cleo. Then a thought struck her that seemed to offer some solution of the difficulties at the studio. Maybe Michael's cousin could keep house for Mary and her grandfather?

"Mary," she whispered, "do you mind if I ask Michael about his cousin? She might go to the studio for us."

"Oh, wouldn't that be splendid!" and something like joy shot across Mary's pale face. "I know any friend of Michael's would be faithful."

But Michael was just spying the little animal in Mary's arm. And the animal seemed to be just spying Michael!

"What on earth—have you got—there!" gasped the caretaker.

"Oh, the dearest little monkey——" Cleo attempted to explain, but was interrupted with a protest.

"A monkey!" cried Michael. "Of all the hated animals of the earth a monkey is the worst. Where ever did you pick the creature up?" He stepped nearer to examine the mascot, in spite of his denunciation.

"Now you couldn't hate a little thing like that," insisted Grace. "Just see, he wants to shake hands with you."

Rather awkwardly the man extended one big brown finger. The queer little creature made a comical effort to grasp it, and at the same time shake his wizened head with a show of monkey intelligence.

"I don't exactly know why it is, but the Irish hate monkeys!" admitted Michael, with a hearty laugh that interpreted the joke.

"But you will love this one," insisted Mary. "He is as tame as a kitten."

"And even Shep was kind to him," went on Grace. "Say, Michael," coaxingly, "couldn't we take him in your rooms for something to eat? He must be starved. We found him—in an empty house," explained Grace.

"And he needs it—I mean an empty house," declared Michael. "Can't you see him making himself at home in my little sitting room? I'll bet he would want to sleep in my best tea pot, or maybe he would prefer my new hat. They always like hats when they go around with the organ grinders. But tell me, girls, where did you get him? I don't want a couple of hurdy-gurdy pushers coming down on me for their monka," he finished, with a very weak imitation of the Italian accent.

"Someone left him in Mary's house, or else he came in by the chimney," said Madaline. "But at any rate he is ours, and we are going to have him for a pet. Now, Michael, please give him something to eat. See how pale he is."

Whether willingly or reluctantly, Michael now led the way to his quarters in the garage, and as quickly as the monkey smelled food Mary had her own troubles in restraining his appreciation. He wanted to walk all over everything and sample every article in sight that even looked like food.

"He surely was hungry," admitted Michael, showing an interest in the animal in spite of his voiced dislike for it. "They are kinda cute, ain't they now?" he ventured.

"And say, Michael," began Cleo at this favorable opening, "do you think your cousin would like to take a place up at Second Mountain? You see, Mary's folks are all away. You know her grandfather is in Crow's Nest, and they have some beautiful things at the studio that should be cared for."

"We can give her good wages," assured Mary, "and Grandie would so appreciate a real housekeeper."

"Say, listen!" said Michael. "I'll forgive the monkey now. That's the very place for Katie Bergen. Just you run along and fix it up with Jennie for to-night, and I'll take care of the monkey."

"There!" said Cleo, when they left the garage, "isn't that just like a good natured old Michael? He's petting our mascot already." And they all agreed it was just like Michael to pet a monkey.



CHAPTER XXI

REDA'S RETURN

When Mrs. Dunbar heard the story of the day's adventures, even she showed surprise.

"I hardly know how to excuse myself for allowing you girls to go up there alone," she said, when the scouts had unfolded the exciting story, "except that you always do seem so capable!" Then she laughed and tapped Cleo under the chin. "Of course you would be capable," she added, "when you are related to me."

"Oh, there really wasn't any danger," Grace hurried to say, fearful their wings of adventure might be clipped by the scissors of prudence. "Besides, we had Shep with us, you know."

"Yes, and, Auntie, he acted so queerly," said Cleo. "He found an old yellow handkerchief, and simply insisted on tearing it to shreds. I never saw him hate anything so."

"Yellow handkerchief, did you say?" repeated Mrs. Dunbar, and when Cleo said "yes" the aunt just shook her head understandingly. She knew it was also a yellow handkerchief that Shep dragged in with him the night he received the bullet wound. The two articles must have belonged to the same person. No wonder Shep would hate both!

"But do let me get a look at those wonderful trinkets," said Mrs. Dunbar, when they finally did manage to reach the sitting room and there drop some of the bundles and baskets. "I have never hoard of such a story. To think old Reda had all those hidden away. Of course, you being so young, Mary dear, she may have just intended to keep them till you grew up," she concluded.

This explanation did not seem to satisfy some of her listeners, although Mary was inclined to accept it. Presently Mrs. Dunbar was examining the little cameos, the quaint foreign rings, and lockets—there were a number of lockets. Then Mary offered the photographs for her inspection. The trained eye of the artist lingered on these. Yes, Mary surely was like her pretty mother; and the tall soldierly man! What a pity he had to go so soon from the life of his daughter.

"Makes me think of Guy," Mrs. Dunbar remarked, "with his love of adventure. He must have been of the same temperament, for I am sure I will soon have to pack up my kit and go traveling if I am to be with my own good looking boy," and she gave one of her happy, rippling laughs. Audrey Dunbar was still a girl, and "her boy's" tour through the west had been her first separation from him since their marriage.

"But he will soon be home," she added, as if the girls had been following her thoughts. "Then let us be prepared for more surprises."

"Why?" asked Madaline shyly.

"Oh, because he is a very surprising boy!" declared the young wife, "and when he becomes a scout—Mercy me! what wonderful things will happen! But now I am going down to see your other find—the monkey. Cleo dear, you know my weakness for queer animals, and my love for monkeys often got me in trouble during my hand-organ days. Come along. It will be tea time before we know it."

In the few hours following it was difficult to make sure just which end of Cragsnook was most fascinating. The girls went from one "exhibit" to the other, with seemingly increasing interest, until Mrs. Dunbar finally locked all the valuables in the safe, and Michael, down in his quarters, had rigged up a cage for "Boxer." The girls decided he might be called Boxer because they found him in a box, and also because Michael had already discovered he could use his "fists."

After tea Mary declined an invitation to take a run to the village. She seemed overdone with the day of excitement.

"But you girls go, and bring me some stamps, if you will," she said. "I want to write a whole book to Grandie to-night. It seems the most satisfactory way of talking to him now," she finished.

"But you will see him to-morrow," Cleo reminded her. "Why write?"

"Oh, I like him to get my good morning kiss with his breakfast," responded Mary, "and, besides, I may be able to prepare him for some of the surprises."

So Cleo, Grace and Madaline went off to the village, although reluctant to leave Mary alone. Still, her plea to write letters seemed a request not to be interrupted.

Almost before it could be realized thunder rolled over the mountains. A telephone announced the girls would stay with Lucille and Lalia, whom they had met in town, and that all would return by auto as soon as the shower passed. Mary sat by the low window looking ever the porch. Jennie was busy in the kitchen, and Mrs. Dunbar was in her study, writing to the home-coming boy. The storm came on so suddenly that Mary hurried to close the long French window off the living room, when something like a moan sounded, she thought, under the window!

She listened! Yes, surely that was someone moaning. Stepping through the window out onto the porch, a sheet of rain dashed in her face, blinding her so that, for the moment, she was forced to take refuge behind the swinging hammock.

Flashes of lightning now showed a blackened sky, and the terrifying peals of thunder seemed to swallow every other earthly sound.

"But I am sure I heard a human voice," Mary told herself. "I must see if anyone is about here suffering."

She was minded to attempt to call for Jennie, when again a low, pitiful moan came as an echo to a terrific thunder clap.

"Who is it?" called Mary, but the sound had died down, and was lost in the storm.

"It could not have been Shep," Mary was thinking, "and I can't go inside without finding out what it is. Who is there?" she called, bravely throwing her skirt over her head to ward off the beating rain.

"Mary! Marie, come to Reda!" came a faint reply, and at the sound of the voice, unmistakably that of her old nurse, Mary jumped from the porch, out into the blasting storm, and attempted to follow the direction whence came the sound.

"Reda! Reda! Where are you?" she called frantically. "It is I, Mary. Answer, where are you?" She stopped under a tree to avoid a very deluge that poured down on the path. For a moment she hesitated. What if that letter from New York had been a ruse to trick her into following someone with the idea of helping Reda? But surely that was Reda's cry.

Again she called and called, but no reply came back, and baffled, as well as frightened, she ran to the house, in through the hall, her dripping garment leaving a path of water as she went, until she reached Jennie in the kitchen.

"Oh, Jennie," she gasped, "someone is out in the storm! They called me. I am sure it is my old nurse, Reda! How can we find her in this awful downpour?"

"Out in the storm—who?" asked the maid, astonished at the plight of the girl who stood trembling before her.

"I am sure it is Reda, and she will perish," wailed Mary. "What shall I do?"

"Now don't take on so," commanded Jennie, beginning to realize what it all meant. "Just you wait until a few of these awful claps are over, and we will quickly find anyone who is out there. Just hear that! Mercy! what a dreadful storm! I am so glad the girls did not venture home. I could scarcely get the windows shut when it broke like a cloud-burst."

"Why, what is the matter?" came Mrs. Dunbar's voice from the hall. "Jennie, I am sure someone is crying out in the storm," she called.

"Come, we must see who it can be."

"I am afraid it is Reda, my nurse," said Mary, now almost in tears. "Oh, do you think she will perish? I was out but could not find her."

Hurried arrangements were made now to summon Michael, and as the storm had somewhat abated it was soon possible to go out with lanterns and search.

Clad in raincoats and rubbers, Mary, Jennie and Mrs. Dunbar went first along the path, toward the gate. Everything seemed quiet, except the late splashes of rain from the trees, and in spite of repeated calls no answer came, and no trace of the storm's victim could be found.

"Nobody about," announced Michael, as if satisfied the search had been futile.

Then a stir in the hedge attracted Mary's attention.

"Listen!" she exclaimed. "Something stirred in here!"

"Fetch the lantern, Michael," commanded Mrs. Dunbar. "I do see the bushes moving."

He brought the light, and swung it into the thick hedge.

"Oh, Reda," cried Mary. "Reda, are you dead!" she screamed, throwing herself down by a huddled figure that lay ominously still in the deep, wet grass.

"Mary, wait," ordered Mrs. Dunbar kindly. "Here, Michael, give me the light so you can lift her. She may be just overcome."

But Mary was on her knees beside the old nurse, whose face, bared to the glare of the lantern, looked so death-like!

"Reda! Reda!" called Mary, pressing her young face down to the shriveled features. "Oh, speak to Mary. It is I, Maid Mary! See, I am with you."

But no sound came from the frozen lips, nor did the wrinkled hands answer Mary's warm grasp.

"She is likely stunned," said Mrs. Dunbar, encouragingly. "Michael, can you carry her?"

"Certainly I can," declared the stalwart man, and shouldering the inert burden, her arms brought over his strong chest, and her limbs fetched around under his own strong arms, he carried the unconscious woman up the steps into Cragsnook.

Speechless with terror, Mary followed, while Mrs. Dunbar led the way with the light, and Jennie had hurried on ahead to make ready, scarcely knowing where the gruesome burden was to be rested.

"On the couch in the library," ordered Mrs. Dunbar, "and, Jennie, telephone at once for Dr. Whitehead. I feel sure she is only stunned. Mary dear, be brave," she continued. "We will surely bring your poor, old nurse back to you," she finished.

But Mary stood like one transfixed, gazing at the helpless figure huddled on the low, leather couch.



CHAPTER XXII

THE ORPHAN OF THE ORCHIDS

Anxious hours at Cragsnook followed that night's storm. Reda, who had been ill in New York, had somehow managed to make her way to Bellaire when she was overtaken by the cloud-burst and stunned from fright of lightning and thunder. But with the skillful work of Dr. Whitehead, assisted by Jennie, Kate Bergen (Michael's cousin who arrived after the shower), Mrs. Dunbar and the girls, the old nurse finally opened her eyes, and showed signs of life.

"Oh, I never knew how much I loved her until I saw her lying so deathlike," Mary murmured, when Mrs. Dunbar insisted the child should leave the bedside of Reda. "If she had died, and I had not found her in time——"

"Now, Mary-love," coaxed Grace, "you know you are a scout, and we never indulge in foolish fancies like that. Just think how fine it is that she has been saved, and think how good Mrs. Dunbar is."

"Oh, I know and think of that constantly," declared Mary. "This house is nothing short of an institution since I came to it," she went on. "And do you know, Cleo," turning to the one girl who had the right there of relationship to Mrs. Dunbar, "it all frightens me when I feel so much at home here, almost as if I too belonged at Cragsnook. It is presuming, and I can't account for that in me. I have always been so timid."

"You are cured, that's why," said Cleo, urging Mary to bed, for it was well past midnight. "A girl scout simply can't be timid, that is a really, truly good as gold scout girl, and we all know you are exactly that. But not one more word to-night. I have been appointed captain and it is my duty to sound taps, or, as Benny Philow or Mally Mack might say, 'douse the glim.' I think that's the cutest expression," and to demonstrate just how "cute" it was she snapped off the lights.

Next day everything was in confusion, and excitement was too weak a word with which to describe the conditions that existed at Cragsnook. Reda had come to with all the strength characteristic of her sturdy race, and nothing but main force kept her from running away. She was frightened to death of the place, of the people around her, and nothing that Mary could say would assure her no harm could come to anyone who was within the hospitality of that generous home. And Reda had explained to Mary it was the jewels she had hidden for the child that had caused her most anxiety. She feared Janos would find them.

The advent of Katie Bergen, Michael's cousin, seemed nothing short of providential, and to her was at once entrusted the care of the obstreperous patient.

"I think, dear Mrs. Dunbar," said Mary rather timidly, "it would really be much better to take Reda back to the studio. Once there she will quiet down, and that may save her from higher fever."

"Perhaps you are right," Mrs. Dunbar agreed; "the doctor says she has been a very sick woman, and her collapse was only natural, considering what she went through. Has she told you why she was so eager to see you?"

"Partly," Mary replied. "You see, she was sort of conscious [Transcriber's note: conscience?] stricken that something would happen to me, and she felt obliged to warn me. And she also wanted to give me Loved One's jewels."

"But nothing did happen," blurted out Madaline, keen on the trail of the mystery.

"Oh, do tell us, Mary," begged Grace. "It seems to me we will have so much to find out all at once it will be rather overwhelming if we don't start in."

"Well, you little scouts run along and enjoy your story," suggested Mrs. Dunbar, "and I will see about having Reda sent up to the mountain. I am sure, Mary, you are right. She may be saved a real relapse if we agree with her. And, of course, Katie is going to be your housekeeper. I would envy you if I hadn't such a treasure in Jennie. This is really her house, and I am a guest, it seems to me," and it was hoped by every little girl present that the delicious compliment floated out to Jennie, who was busy in the breakfast room just at that moment.

"Please let me tell you something first," begged Cleo, when the girls were left to themselves. "I am fairly bursting with the news. You know I wrote out the whole story to Uncle Guy. I wanted him to know all about it when he came home and also, ahem"—and the perky little head perked perceptibly—"I may as well admit, girls, I am ambitious to keep the family honors up in the writing line, so I just wrote all this glorious vacation to Uncle Guy, making it just like a summer story. I sent our pictures——"

"Mercy me, Cleo!" interrupted Grace, "I guess you will be a story writer. Just see how you have us all keyed up, and won't tell us what happened. What did your Uncle Guy say?" she demanded.

Cleo laughed triumphantly. "There, I knew I would get you excited——"

"Cleo Harris!" shouted Madaline, almost forgetting the presence of a sick person out on the enclosed side porch, where Reda was being fixed up for her journey over the mountain. "Cleo," repeated Madaline, "you tell us instantly what your Uncle Guy said!"

"Your commands are my pleasures," replied Cleo in mock dramatic emphasis. "There, doesn't that sound like a book? Uncle Guy wrote to me and to Aunt Audrey, and he merely said not to let a single kid escape. That my letter had knocked him silly, and that his cousin, whom he discovered out in the western camp, was coming home with him."

"Who is the cousin?" asked Grace.

"A man, a lovely man, just like Uncle Guy. He was an explorer, or still is, and has been away for some years," she glanced rather anxiously at Mary, but the latter never changed her serious expression. Then Cleo said pointedly, "Mary, your father was an explorer, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he went away in search of orchids," faltered Mary, "and you know he never came back from the sea, when the men took him out to the ocean to cool him in that frightful fever."

"And you left the island with the professor a few days after?" pressed Cleo.

"Yes, oh yes. We had to get away. Grandie was getting sick, you know; that is how he lost—his memory."

"Yes," said Cleo, simply, but Grace and Madaline had "seen a light," which Mary still appeared blind to.

Mrs. Dunbar was very busy arranging for the removal of Reda, but in a moment of cessation she was heard talking to Crow's Nest over the phone. She gave orders to the sanitarium that Professor Benson should be brought down to Cragsnook for a ride late that afternoon, as the girls would not go up there that day. Besides, Mrs. Dunbar was declaring, the ride would do him good.

"Oh, won't that be lovely!" and Mary almost danced out of her glumps. "Just think of Grandie here!"

"Now, Mary-love, you promised some of Reda's news. Do tell us before something else happens to put off all our delicious mysteries," implored Madaline, quite as if the telling would give the same joy to Mary as the news would furnish to herself.

"What did she want to warn you of?" prompted Grace.

"Oh, Janos and his men. They were coming out here to take all Grandie's orchids away. And they brought the monkey to scare him. He was dreadfully frightened of a monkey once in the tropics, and Janos knew it, so he just planned that awful trick on him——"

"With our lovely little Boxer! How perfectly absurd," exclaimed Grace, at the risk of spoiling all the thrilling story Mary had undertaken to tell them.

"Yes," went on Mary, "and the night you girls came, that first night, you remember?"

"Yes, when I turned on the lights," inserted Madaline.

"That was the night they first planned to scare Grandie's secret from him. They were all three out in that orchid room, just waiting to break in and—oh, I can't say what they were going to do to get Grandie's secret from him." She was now on the verge of sobbing, and the girls had no idea of letting any such thing occur.

"But Madaline turned the tables," Cleo said cheerily, "and she shooed off the—desperate thieves!" and Cleo again reverted to type as a fiction fixer.

"And the really cruel part of it all was," continued Mary, "Grandie did not know and does not know yet what became of the treasure they are all seeking. He lost it with his memory," she said almost in a whisper. "And it was daddy's just as I was his. I was to be given mother's family with the treasure as a peace offering."

"What was it?" asked Cleo. "Can you tell us now, Mary-love?" she asked gently.

"Yes, Grandie said I might tell you now, for he does not fear things as he did before he went to the sanitarium. He has recovered courage, which was simply clogged up in his congested mind. Yes, he said I might tell you now that he lost the most famous orchid in the world, the 'Spiranthes Corale.' That means coral lady tresses. It was in search of that daddy and the expedition went out. Daddy found it. It was almost beyond price. Then Loved One died, dear daddy was stricken, and all the papers and this wonderful bulb were given Grandie. He lost them! Do you wonder he almost went crazy?"

For a few minutes the girls did not speak. It seemed rather disappointing that the whole mystery should center around the bulb of an orchid.

"Oh, I know," exclaimed Cleo presently. "I have read of the famous orchid hunts and the fabulous sums of money offered for the most rare species. Of course that was the sort of expedition your folks were on, Mary-love. And, of course—why, girls, that's just what our newspaper clipping was all about. The one we found wrapped around the old stick in Mary's big clock!"

"Get it! Get it!" cried Madaline, who literally tumbled after Grace, in haste to reach the old bit of newspaper that had been carefully stored away in the scouts' desk, for they had been assigned one general and especial desk in Cragsnook.

"And the precious bulb was never found?" Cleo said to Mary, seeming to embrace her with a look, so filled was her expression with genuine affection.

"No, it has gone, and with it the one hope of Loved One's last word to me, that the famous orchid which was to be given to her mother in this country would unite me with her family, and prove daddy a real explorer."

"And don't you know who her family are?" asked Cleo, unable to suppress her increasing excitement.

"Not exactly, for Grandie begged me not to ask until he had recovered the bulb. He always felt his memory must come back. Now, of course, it is months, and we have given up hope. But I don't care any more, for I have found so many other darling loves in life." She threw her arms around Cleo, and if the latter had ever given in to tears she might have been pardoned a few just then—the kind that come with too much joy.

"Mary!" she said gently, "now I know why Professor Benson once called you the orphan of the orchids, but suppose, suppose your daddy didn't die?" she ventured.

"I have often thought of that," said the child. "But even if he lived he could never find me, for he would think I died with so many others, and I suppose I could not even look for him, until I grow up like Loved One, and go off again to search among the orchids. I wouldn't fear that fever when the goal might mean daddy!"



CHAPTER XXIII

MAID MARY AWAKE

"We had better tell her," said Mrs. Dunbar to Cleo, an hour later, after Cleo had talked things over with G-race, while she left Madaline to entertain Mary. "As you say, my dear, it does look as if your vacation story is going to have a very happy ending."

Cleo flitted back to her companions. They divined from her manner that the hoped-for good news was to be "thrown on the screen."

"Mary," began Cleo, who had dropped in a safe coil on the rug at Mary's feet, "are you prepared for the very biggest thing in all the world to happen? Can you stand the most astonishing kind of news?" and she managed to secure Mary's hand to give her confidence.

"Oh, yes, Cleo dear, but don't tell me if you are not sure? I have been dreaming such glorious things since—you talked of—daddy!"

"It is just about him, Mary, I want to speak. He may be alive——"

"Oh, how do you know? Who has found him——"

"Don't become too excited now," pleaded Cleo, while Grace and Madaline both closed in affectionately about Mary's chair. "Of course we cannot be too positive, but Uncle Guy has wired he is bringing back—your daddy!"

"Oh!" the sound was a sigh, a gasp, then Mary began to slip down deep into the chair.

"Now, don't you dare faint!" called Madaline, with the magic way she always exercised of averting evil through sheer innocent challenge. "Here, Grace, hold her head while I fetch water," and while Grace attempted to support the head Madaline had been fondling, Mary raised it with a look of unspeakable joy.

"Oh, girls!" she murmured, "how did you do it?"

"Oh, we didn't," disclaimed Cleo. "No girls really could; we just lived up to our laws and rules and inspirations, and all those powers united to bring our happy result. It would be perfectly silly to say girls could do such things."

"But we did all the same," came from Grace, "and it would be sillier to say the rules and the laws and the inspirations did them. Wouldn't it? You wrote the whole story and even sent Mary's picture to your uncle."

"But daddy!" Mary begged. "Tell me, where is he now? How did your uncle find him?"

"Our uncle," corrected Cleo. "I am almost afraid to tell you this part. The girls will say I was in the secret all the time, and I wasn't, truly. Mary—you are my cousin!"

"She is not—no fair!" cried Grace, actually slamming a pillow on Cleo's head. "I warned you long ago not to dare to claim her——" And the thumping of soft pillows supplied the omission of words.

"At least let me tell it," said Madaline in mock scorn. "Be generous enough to give us that much glory. You see, ladies and gentlemen (to an imagined audience), this little girl," slamming Cleo with another pillow, "wrote a letter to her cousin. Her cousin had found his cousin, and his cousin made Mary Cleo's cousin, because Cleo's cousin—was——"

Realizing Mary was not in a mood for such joking, Madaline apologized with a kiss on the softly pinked cheek. "Mary-love," she confessed, "I just did that to ward off tears. Cleo would have disgraced the scouts in another moment."

"We got the most important clew in the old bamboo cane," said Cleo, seriously. "That was literally stuffed with papers, and one was a baptismal certificate, giving your name, Mary, as Marie Hastings Dunbar."

"Dunbar!" repeated Mary, "and the men all called daddy Dunnie. That was his name, Dunbar!"

"Yea, and Aunt Audrey has found out that Constance Hastings, your mother's mother, is in one of the finest hotels in New York now! The Hastings own the most famous orchid collection in this country."

"They are millionaires," began Mary, but her voice was almost scornful.

"Yes, I know. Aunt Audrey has talked with Mrs. Gilmore Hastings over the telephone. She will be apt to take you from us, if you don't hold tight."

"Never! Never! Never!" defied Grace. "She is our Mary—yes, cousin Mary, for isn't Cleo's Aunt Audrey our Aunt Audrey—by vacation scout laws?"

Only the girls that they were could have absorbed so many surprises at a sitting, but such is the nature of nature's best product, and that product is always lively, happy girls!

What happened between that time and next morning would take volumes to relate, but it might as well be admitted that Jennie had to fairly camp out in the hall that night to stop the talking, and it was away past midnight when she succeeded. Even then it would be false to claim that Mary actually slept.

Early in the evening Mrs. Dunbar had very carefully unfolded the story to Professor Benson when he came down over the mountain in the car Mrs. Dunbar had ordered. So that he, too, was somewhat prepared for the astounding surprise. The return of Jayson Dunbar from the mystery of orchid land seemed almost too wonderful, but the Professor admitted he had always hoped Jay would "turn up."

"And every letter I wrote to mother I kept hinting that the glories of Bellaire were actually taking root in my soul," said Cleo, as the girl dressed next morning, almost unconscious of the task they were performing. "Now she will understand the metaphor."

"And Michael is going to give us all a ride up to the studio before breakfast," exclaimed Madaline. "He wants to try the car to make sure it is all right."

"Try it on us," laughed Grace. Nevertheless she was the first one to find the best seat, when the car directly honked at the door.

Reda was beautifully installed in her own room, and pompously accepting the ministrations of Katie Bergen, when the girls found her at the studio. How delightful it all was! Mary was speechless with sheer joy.

"It is perfectly glorious!" she kept exclaiming. "And to think that daddy is coming! How can I believe it after all my dark days!"

"Girls! Let's have one more blissful look in the orchid room!" begged Grace. "It won't be the same when others come."

Almost like a little procession they wended their way into the conservatory. At the opening of the door they were almost overcome with the perfume of the tropics that burst from the riot of glory there.

They looked from one bloom to another. Mary told them how Professor Benson had made every sort of bulb bloom in the hope of finding the lost treasure, the rarest orchid in the world. Then she explained why she and Reda had gathered queer roots from which the botanist had ground fertilizer, but that all of this had not brought forth the priceless bloom.

They were reluctantly leaving when Madaline and Grace espied Mary's old home-made doll. It was so quaint and queer they both sought to reclaim it at once.

"Just look!" said Madaline. "What a funny old doll!"

"Isn't it jolly," added Grace, whose hand was on the discarded toy just as Madaline picked it up.

"Why, the orchids have taken root in it, Mary," declared Grace. "See, this sprout growing out of the arm!"

"Let me see!" almost cried Mary. "Oh, girls, it is it! It is the lost orchid. Grandie had sewed it up in the doll! Look. See that stem!" She was shouting almost wildly, for there, shooting from the broken arm pit of the queer old hand-made doll was the unmistakable tendril of the long sought for orchid.

"And we both found it at exactly the same minute!" announced Grace when the full value of their discovery dawned upon them. "Cleo found an adorable cousin, and you and I, Madie dear, found the lost orchid!"

Mary held the doll up to the astonished gaze of her companions. To think that tiny green shoot should mean so much! That hidden in the queer doll was a prize, almost beyond price, and for this prize covetous men had followed Mary and her guardian from the tropics!

The girls stood there almost reverently.

And, unconsciously, Mary posed again as the Orphan of the Orchids!

Michael had been off to Crow's Nest for the professor and he was now back with the splendidly improved man, a scholar and a scientist every inch, who stood there in sight of his orchid room.

"Grandie! Grandie!" called Mary, "see, we have found it. You sewed it up in the doll you made me! Don't you remember how you told me never to part with that old rag baby?"

Like a flash it all came back! Yes, when the fever threatened his life he had decided the child could keep her doll free from suspicion, and in this he had sewed the precious orchid bulb.

"Girls! Girls!" he exclaimed, "am I dreaming? And I didn't betray my trust! Dunnie, you may come back to us now; I have saved for you both your darling child and your precious orchid!"

Meanwhile the greatest of great preparations were being completed at Cragsnook. Only the freest use of telegraph had contented Guy Dunbar to stay with the train that bore him and his famous cousin back to civilization.

The train was in. Michael and Shep met it. Boxer had been compelled to stay home though Michael wanted to take him, and all the girls "with Mrs. Dunbar and Professor Benson stood on the porch, under the arch of growing roses that welcomed the comers to Cragsnook.

"Don't get too excited, Mary," begged Madaline, always to be depended upon for breaking too heavy a silence.

"There they come," shouted Cleo, and nothing but a firm hold laid on her very skirts by Mrs. Dunbar kept the impetuous little scout from running out too near the approaching motor.

Folded in her daddy's arms, Mary seemed for a moment miles and miles away. Then she turned to the girls and tried to speak, but she only managed to say:

"Girls, I am wide awake at last."

"Say, Audrey," said Guy Dunbar, after he had embraced his wife and looked about him at the group of girls, "this surely is a real old home week. I always knew you ought to run a boarding school!"

"Or a merry-go-round, Uncle Guy," Cleo supplemented. "This house, with Aunt Audrey as leader, has been a regular picnic grounds all Summer."

"And to think I should literally fall over old coz, Jay Dunbar, in a western lumber camp," said jolly Guy Dunbar, thumping his own brilliant head.

Mary and her father (he did look like Guy Dunbar) were too spellbound to notice their surroundings. But as quickly as he could manage it Professor Benson spoke to the wanderer. "It's like the real page in our old log, Dunnie," said the professor, "and your precious Spiranthes Corale has been found. I lost it, but Mary's, friends have recovered it and now you are the famous explorer you set out to become." And he held up the quaint doll with the miraculous green shoot stealing through its arm pit.

"Some little Girl Scouts!" declared Guy Dunbar, leading the way to the house.

"How shall we end it?" asked Cleo. "Mary's daddy is found, the orchid is found, new cousins are found—oh, girls! I have so many wonderful endings for our vacation story we shall have to vote on the fade-out!" she decided, while the girls fell into line for a Scout parade to victory.

And the joys of that wonderful reunion must occupy our own interest in these self-same little girls until we meet them again in the next volume, to be entitled, THE GIRL SCOUTS AT SEA CREST—OR THE WIG WAG RESCUE.

THE END