Title: The Girl Scouts of the Round Table
Author: Vandercook, Margaret
Language: English
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THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES

The Girl Scouts of the Round Table



BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK


THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES

  The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge
  The Ranch Girls’ Pot of Gold
  The Ranch Girls at Boarding School
  The Ranch Girls in Europe
  The Ranch Girls at Home Again
  The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure
  The Ranch Girls and their Heart’s Desire
  The Ranch Girls and the Silver Arrow
  The Ranch Girls and the Mystery of the Three Roads


STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

  The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill
  The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows
  The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World
  The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea
  The Camp Fire Girls’ Careers
  The Camp Fire Girls in After Years
  The Camp Fire Girls on the Edge of the Desert
  The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail
  The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines
  The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor
  The Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France
  The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England
  The Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake
  The Camp Fire Girls by the Blue Lagoon


THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES

  The Girl Scouts of the Eagle’s Wing
  The Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest
  The Girl Scouts of the Round Table
  The Girl Scouts in Mystery Valley
  The Girl Scouts and the Open Road



[Illustration: THIS WAS THEIR FIRST IMPORTANT TEST (_See page 149_)]



THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES

  The Girl Scouts of the Round Table

  By
  MARGARET VANDERCOOK

  Author of “The Ranch Girls Series,”
  “The Red Cross Girls Series,” “Stories
  About Camp Fire Girls,” etc.

  Illustrated

  THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS      PHILADELPHIA



  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
  THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
  PRINTED IN U. S. A.



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                             PAGE

       I. THE WHITE KNIGHT               7

      II. THE ROUND TABLE               19

     III. “NOT DEATH BUT LIFE”          30

      IV. TORY’S DREAMS                 39

       V. CHRISTMAS EVE                 48

      VI. A CHRISTMAS DANCE             61

     VII. A CITY OF TOWERS              71

    VIII. THE CALL                      79

     IX. A STUDIO TEA                   90

      X. REACTION                      104

     XI. A ROUND TABLE DISCUSSION      117

    XII. UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITIES      126

   XIII. OTHER EXPERIENCES             136

    XIV. AN INTRODUCTION               153

     XV. UNRAVELING                    166

    XVI. DOUBT                         181

   XVII. AN ANNOUNCEMENT               190

  XVIII. THE LAST ROUND TABLE          207

    XIX. AN UNWRITTEN STORY            216

     XX. A WEDDING                     226

    XXI. A JUNE DAY                    235



CHAPTER I

THE WHITE KNIGHT


The snow had fallen several days before. This afternoon the ground was
hard and white, with a thin crust of ice.

Spinning in the air were small silver crystals that danced in the
winter wind as if with no thought of ever settling down upon the earth.

Driving along the road, Tory Drew felt their light, cold touch on her
forehead and cheeks. The warm blood in her rushed up to meet them, her
face and eyes glowed.

She was alone and on her way to call upon Memory Frean in her House in
the Woods.

An hour before she had been despondent. Now she felt a pleasant rush of
excitement and a sense of adventure.

Originally she had not intended to make the little journey alone. At
present she was rejoicing in her loneliness.

She had stopped at the shabby old house across from her own to ask
Dorothy McClain to accompany her, but finding Dorothy away from home
had made no further effort for companionship.

There were other Girl Scouts who would gladly have joined her. Memory
Frean was a member of their Council, and during the past summer in
Beechwood Forest their own Patrol of the Eagle’s Wing Troop had learned
to know her intimately.

Tory’s horse moved slowly and serenely with little urging from her.
The tang and beauty of the afternoon occasionally stirred him to small
spurts of speed.

Ordinarily Mr. Richard Fenton’s riding horse, only recently Tobias had
been broken for driving.

This afternoon he was drawing a newly purchased two-seated sleigh with
Tory Drew as driver.

Now and then she made an impatient movement of her reins and smiled,
appreciating the fact that Tobias would not move any faster than his
own inclination ordered. Besides, she was in no particular hurry. So
long as the sun shone with its early afternoon radiance upon the white
world surrounding her, she enjoyed being a part of the great outdoors.

The wind blew harder and the snow danced faster and still Tory laughed.
The House in the Woods would appear like a miniature fairy palace when
she finally reached it.

It was Friday, and she had received permission from her aunt, Miss
Victoria Fenton, to remain for the night. Therefore, when darkness fell
she and Miss Frean could sit by the open fire and talk as only they
could talk.

If of late life had not been so satisfactory as usual, Memory Frean
would help set things right.

Only a little more than a year before on an autumn afternoon they had
met along this self-same road.

The thought of Westhaven without Memory Frean, Victoria Drew did not
like to contemplate.

Since her arrival in the little New England town of Westhaven two
friends she had come to consider indispensable to her happiness, Memory
Frean and Katherine Moore.

No longer was Kara to be found in the Gray House on the Hill, her own
title for the village orphan asylum.

Counting the days, Tory felt it incredible that she and Kara had been
separated only two months. But then she was one of the persons who
measured time not by the calendar but by her own needs.

After the excitement of helping Kara make ready to leave had followed
a natural reaction. Then word had come that the other girl was settled
in a small hospital in New York City. How long she must wait before the
doctors could say whether she would be able to walk again no one would
predict.

Kara was struggling to be patient. Tory appreciated that she should be
no less patient, yet uncertainty was peculiarly hard for her restless
nature.

This morning Kara’s final letter had announced that she might hope to
hear by Christmas. Until then they must both be brave.

With all Tory Drew’s vivid charm and sweetness, she did not possess the
force of character of the other girl. However, their lives had been
very different. After her mother’s death, Victoria Drew, who preferred
to be known as Tory, had lived with her artist father, wandering about
Europe. Eighteen months before, he had married a second time. He had
then sent her to be brought up as an American girl in the little town
of Westhaven, with her mother’s unmarried brother and sister, Mr.
Richard Fenton and Miss Victoria Fenton.

No such background favored Kara. Found by a passer-by in a deserted
cabin when little more than a baby, until her accident in Beechwood
Forest the summer before, Kara had lived in the village orphan asylum.
Her name, Katherine Moore, pinned to her dress, was all that was so far
known of her history or parentage. She had gone with her Patrol of Girl
Scouts to the woods to camp for the summer. Here, an accident which had
not appeared serious at the time made it probable that she would never
walk again.[A]

  [Footnote A: See “Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest.”]

Her thoughts turning from one friend to the other, Tory became more
dispirited.

She did not look overhead to see that the clouds were deepening and
the sun on the snow shining less bright. No longer were the snowflakes
dancing in the air, but settling thick and fast on the hard crust of
the ice.

However, when she drew up before the front door of the House in the
Woods she was finally aware of the fact.

It was good to observe the small spiral of smoke ascending through the
brick chimney and to catch the reflection of the fire on the window
glass. Preferring first to make her horse comfortable for the night,
Tory led him to the stable at the back of the house, unhitched and fed
him.

With her task accomplished, on her way to the house Tory found her
hands and face aching from the cold. She received the impression that
although fighting valiantly against the wind and snow, if the contest
should be a long one she would be defeated.

Her knock at the front door became more imperative than polite, more a
demand than an appeal.

No one opened the door.

The girl did not knock again. A sudden gust of wind blew her forward.
She caught hold of the knob, felt it turn and pushed open the door.

The room inside was warm, glowing and empty.

Tory called, but there was no reply.

By the side of the fireplace was a pile of logs sufficient to last
twenty-four hours. Removing her wraps and replenishing the fire, the
newcomer sat down on the stool she regarded as her especial property.

There was not much light in the wide room save the flames of crimson
and gold from the fire. The window blinds were open, but the sunlight
of an hour before had vanished. The light through the glass was gray
and opaque.

Tory frowned. Yet she was really extremely comfortable and reasonably
serene again. Christmas was not far off. Her uncle had promised to take
her for her first visit to New York. With her artist father she had
been in London, Paris and Rome; and the time was approaching when she
should behold the greatest city in her own country.

Tory Drew’s frown at present was not for herself or Katherine Moore.
She was troubled by Memory Frean’s absence from her home.

No need to ponder where she had gone, or why.

Tory observed the absence of the rusty leather bag that ordinarily sat
in the corner by the odd cabinet.

From the depth of this same bag she had received the gift of the
Eagle’s Wing which had been her talisman in Westhaven. Later her Troop
of Girl Scouts had chosen the Eagle’s Wing for its crest.

Never did Miss Frean fail to carry this bag when upon a pilgrimage to
some one ill or in trouble in the neighborhood who asked her sympathy
and help.

The laws and purposes of the outdoors, some of its simple gifts of
healing, Miss Frean had studied and applied.

She would realize that the storm would be a heavy one and return home
in a little while.

In the meantime, the girl, knowing she would be found a welcome guest,
sat by the fire, sometimes dreaming, at others troubled by Miss Frean’s
delay.

She had always been able to see pictures in the firelight.

At present she pretended to observe a procession of knights marching
through the flames. The last knight perished and Tory aroused herself
to action.

Outside it was now dark, so that Miss Frean would be at home at any
moment, tired and hungry.

She would be glad to discover she was not to spend the long winter
evening alone.

Lighting a lamp, Tory set it in the window as a beacon guide to the
mistress of the house. Another she placed in the center of the table,
which she laid for supper.

Having spent many hours in the House in the Woods with Memory Frean,
Tory was familiar with all its domestic arrangements.

Yet to-night she had an odd sense of unreality, a fanciful impression
that she was in a little house of mystery shut in by the white guards
outside. Now and then they rattled and shook the doors and windows as
if they wished to enter.

She had been glad that Miss Frean had left her front door unlocked. She
rarely ever fastened it. Since her own arrival Tory had seen that it
was securely bolted.

Seven o’clock and the water was boiling on the oil stove in the
kitchen, the bread sliced for toast, and the bacon and eggs waiting to
be cooked on the instant.

At half-past Tory ate her supper alone.

At eight o’clock she went to the front door and half opened it with the
impulse to go forth and search for her friend.

Tory saw the absurdity of this idea, for she had no conception where
to begin the search. The conviction was stealing over her that instead
of waiting through the quiet hours for the return of Memory Frean she
should have gone back to her home in Westhaven before dark. There was
more than a possibility now that Miss Frean would remain for the night
at the home of the ill person for whom she was caring. That she could
be away on any other errand that would absorb so much time did not
occur to her unexpected guest.

Half an hour later Tory’s serenity completely vanished, when suddenly
the idea of remaining alone in the little House in the Woods for the
night swept over her with a sense of panic. Never had she been alone
anywhere for a night in her entire lifetime. Here she was in the heart
of the country with no neighbor within a mile. Often she had wondered
and worried over Miss Frean’s living here alone, yet the terror of a
winter’s night in the midst of a storm had never before touched her
imagination.

And Tory’s imagination was keener than most persons’.

The big room became haunted with shadows. The gusts of wind outside
that had given her a sense of satisfaction and the impression of
being safely cloistered during the afternoon were now wailing spirits
struggling to enter.

Tory was now walking up and down the floor straining her ears to catch
the sound of approaching footsteps. If only Memory Frean would return,
there would still be time for a few happy hours together.

Memory Frean must of course be spending the night with her patient, who
had been too ill to permit her to return earlier in the evening.

Tory realized that she should have gone back to her own home in
Westhaven as soon as she discovered her hostess’s absence.

It was too late now to consider this. Besides, the storm made it out of
the question.

Restlessly she continued walking up and down the serene and familiar
room, but Tory’s own serenity had vanished. The room haunted by
shadows, she must remain here alone until daylight.

Always she had suffered from an ardent imagination. At times it
afforded her more entertainment than anything else in the world.
To-night she would have been glad to be spared it.

Straining her ears, she kept hoping for the return of Miss Frean,
notwithstanding the conditions outside.

At bedtime Tory arrived at a desperate decision.

No matter what the reality, she could face it. She would go back to
Westhaven.

An unnerving self-pity overwhelmed her.

In the old brown-and-gold drawing-room of the Fenton homestead her
uncle and aunt were perhaps nodding over their evening conversation.
They would be missing her presence. Suppose they dreamed of her present
plight?

She put on her coat and wrapped her fur tightly about her.

A barn lantern hung inside the kitchen door.

Lighting it, Tory once more opened the front door of the little House
in the Woods.

Her lamp went out, she was enveloped in a spiral column of swirling
snow.

On the path and just below the catalpa tree Tory seemed to see a tall
figure shining in white and silver.

She knew of course this was an illusion, nevertheless, she banged the
door shut with all the force at her command.

Then, as sleep appeared out of the question, piling the fire with
logs, once more she sat down, now to watch and wait for the coming of
morning.



CHAPTER II

THE ROUND TABLE

  “But now farewell. I am going a long way
   With these thou seest--if indeed I go
   (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
   To the island-valley of Avilion;
   Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
   Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
   Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
   And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
   Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”

   So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
   Moved from the brink like some full-breasted swan
   That fluting a wild carol ere her death,
   Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
   With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
   Revolving many memories, till the hull
   Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
   And on the mere the wailing died away.


Tory Drew glanced up from the pages of the book she had been reading
throughout the long night.

Dawn was touching with pale fingers the outside world. The fire to
which she had failed to pay any attention in the past hour was a hot
bed of glowing ashes. The lamp was beginning a sputtering warning that
the end of its supply of oil was drawing near.

Still for several moments more Tory read on. A few verses and she would
have finished reading Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King.” The poems had
held her enchanted many hours.

Not that Tory had read for so long a time without stopping. Twice she
had thrown herself upon the couch drawn near the fire and had done her
best to sleep. On both occasions the terror of the night and storm and
her loneliness seized hold on her.

Every Girl Scout resolution was summoned and recited. Now and then
Tory repeated them aloud to fortify her courage. Notwithstanding, she
continued unable to lose consciousness, and rising again would go back
to her book.

Fortunately for Victoria Drew, since her arrival in Westhaven the
winter before she had become the intimate comrade of her uncle,
Mr. Richard Fenton. In the beautiful library at the Fenton house
she frequently prepared her school lessons for the following day.
Oftentimes in search of a special piece of information she would hunt
among the old books on the shelves above her head. Occasionally she
sat listening while Mr. Fenton read aloud.

Until her friendship with her uncle Tory had not cared a great deal
for books. She was not so enthusiastic a reader as several other girls
in her Patrol of Scouts. But there were certain stories and romances,
pages of history that appealed to Tory’s ardent imagination with
peculiar force.

She would have explained that she loved to read whatever created the
most vivid mental picture.

In this lay the fascination for Tory in Tennyson’s “Idylls of the
King.” She had never read the entire group of poems until to-night;
only listened to an occasional extract or quotation recited by Mr.
Fenton. She had, however, heard the story of King Arthur and his
Knights of the Round Table.

To intensify her interest Mr. Fenton had described the frescoes of Sir
Galahad and his search for the Holy Grail, painted by a great artist.
He had promised to take her some day to Boston to see them.

Alone to-night, Tory had seen her own vision, and been inspired with a
new idea.

Now she was weary and very sleepy.

Over her own costume she was wearing a warm crimson wrapper of Miss
Frean’s.

Heaping the fire with the last remaining logs, she lay down again,
drawing the covers over her head to shut out the cold white light
of dawn. This time promptly Tory fell asleep. The sleep was not
particularly heavy. Certainly she was listening for a sound outside
that might announce the return of Memory Frean to her own home. Had she
been forced to stay at another house because of the storm or illness,
Tory believed she would come home as soon as possible.

Naturally in her semiconscious condition Tory’s dreams were confused.
Her head was filled with chivalrous romances of the past, with stories
of knights and ladies and tournaments. Never far away was the thought
of her own Girl Scout organization. Prosaic though it might appear to
some persons, for Tory it held endless ideals and romances. At present
in her dreams, amid the combination of impressions the figure of King
Arthur appeared, and “Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces.”

King Arthur seemed to have met Memory Frean somewhere, and was
escorting Miss Frean to the little House in the Woods, accompanied by
a troop of Knights of the Round Table.

One of them was making an extraordinary amount of noise. The knight
must have ridden his horse up to the front door. He was pounding upon
it as if he were demanding admittance.

Half dazed, Tory at last sat up on the edge of the couch.

At dawn she had raised one of the blinds. Now the sun outside was
making a white magic on the snow as beautiful as any picture in her
imagination.

There was no magic, however, with regard to the noise; it was
unmistakably real.

Tory half stumbled, half ran across the cold floor in her stockinged
feet, with the dressing gown close about her.

She turned the key and her hand was on the knob when she paused an
instant.

Her eyes traveled to an old-fashioned clock that hung above the mantel;
it was not yet seven o’clock.

The sound outside was an odd one; scarcely could she imagine it made by
Memory Frean.

Tory was still tired and anxious, more so than she had been during her
long vigil. Never had she read so much and for so long a time and
certainly not under such circumstances.

“Memory, is it you?” the girl’s voice called.

The following instant a huge body flung itself against the door so that
the little house shook with the impact.

Tory had the good sense to cross over to the window. More fully awake
and with daylight come, she had less sense of nervous fear.

The snow outside lay nearly level with the window sill, although it had
ceased to fall. The morning air was clear and shining. The white arms
of the trees were outstretched as if in benediction.

Unable to see through the frosted glass, Tory partly raised the window.

She gave a little cry as the figure bounded from the door to the
window. The cry was not of fear but of amused relief.

The early morning intruder was a dog that lived in the neighborhood and
was an especial friend of Miss Frean’s. She it was who had named him
“The Emperor.”

He had not appeared at the camp in Beechwood Forest the summer before
as often as the Girl Scouts had expected. Apparently the Emperor
regarded only a few persons with affection. The confusion of camp life
did not please him to the extent of the quiet little House in the Woods.

Miss Frean had a peculiar sympathy with animals, the rare gift
possessed by few persons and most of them lonely in their relation to
human beings.

At present Tory Drew was not surprised by the visit from the Emperor.
Troubled by the first heavy snowstorm of the winter, he had come to see
if all were well with his friend.

Unhesitatingly Tory opened the door and the big dog rushed indoors. He
was a Great Dane and she reeled slightly when he threw himself against
her, placing his heavy paws on her two shoulders.

The voice that ordered him down was not wholly devoid of fear.

The Emperor obeyed, but seized hold of the crimson dressing gown, the
property of Miss Frean, which Tory was still wearing. He began pulling
at it with an intensity of appeal.

Tory recognized the situation, or was under the impression that she
recognized it.

Far away as the House in the Woods was from other homes, some one must
have gone astray in the storm. The Emperor had come to the one person
he knew who was sure to give aid. He had come to seek Miss Frean. Not
finding her, he was making his petition to the person he had discovered
in her place.

Taking off the dressing gown, Tory slipped on her shoes and overshoes,
and then more slowly her coat and furs.

The dog remained patiently waiting so far as any movement of his body,
but always with the suggestion of imploring haste in his eyes.

This became more apparent when, dressed for the outdoors, Tory
hesitated.

Was the old truism in this case a stern reality? Was discretion not the
better part of valor?

Should she follow the dog to the spot where some one may have been
overcome by the storm? Once there, what possible aid had she the power
to render? Yet to fail to do what she could was less possible. Not only
to her principles as a Girl Scout would she be unfaithful, but she had
entertained herself during the past night by considering her Patrol as
Knights of a Round Table.

“‘All kinds of service with a noble ease, that graced the lowliest act
in doing it,’” Tory quoted to herself, as she stepped out of the front
door, the dog close beside her.

She stopped and caught her breath.

The air was tingling with the sharp cold, the sky above the branches
of the snow-laden trees a steel blue. These were not the important
facts. Save for the footprints of the dog, there was no track anywhere
of man or beast; the path had completely vanished. To step out into
the unpacked snow would mean that she too would be floundering about
half-way up to her waist and soon in need of help instead of being able
to offer it.

Nevertheless, through the intense stillness of the early winter morning
Tory believed she did hear some one approaching.

The Emperor must have received the same impression. He appeared to
sympathize and understand her uncertainty once she had stepped outdoors
to follow his behest. Now he bounded from her.

Not long after Tory’s eyes filled with tears of surprise and relief,
which promptly froze into crystals.

The newcomer, making his way slowly and painstakingly toward the House
in the Woods, was her uncle, Mr. Richard Fenton.

“Tory, is it well with you and Miss Frean?” he called out. “I have
been worrying about you all night and got up at daylight to come and
see.”

He was nearer now and Tory smiled happily upon him.

“I was under the impression I was becoming an old man, Tory dear,” he
remarked as he put his arm about her. “Now I am not so sure. At first
I thought I never would be able to make the long walk out here. There
was no other way at present and I was determined to come. You see, you
borrowed my horse and sleigh for your pilgrimage yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, I know, I am sorry--no, I am not,” Tory contradicted herself. “I
really don’t know what I am saying. What would you think if I tell you
that I spent the entire night alone in the House in the Woods? Memory
Frean was away when I arrived and I stayed on, thinking she would
return each moment. Then night and the storm----”

“And Memory Frean did not return home?” Mr. Fenton inquired, with more
anxiety in his manner and tone than Tory had suffered.

Shaking her head, she was attempting to give her own version of the
situation, when the Emperor, whom they had almost forgotten, flung
himself upon them in a perfect fury of emotional excitement.

Mr. Fenton at once understood his appeal.

“Some one is lost in the snow. How can we manage, Tory?” he asked a
little helplessly. Immediately the girl braced herself to meet the
conditions intelligently. Her training as a Girl Scout counted in such
moments of emergency.

“After all, there is the horse and sleigh! I had completely forgotten!”
she answered. “If they have survived the night as well as I have, we
can drive slowly, following the Emperor. If anyone has been overcome by
the snowstorm, there is a chance we could bring him to the House in the
Woods.”



CHAPTER III

“NOT DEATH BUT LIFE”


Mr. Fenton walked on slowly with his hand at the horse’s head. He was
guiding and encouraging, as he floundered through the heavy snow,
almost as light in quality as sifted flour.

Tory rode, holding the reins and standing so that she might better
observe the objects ahead.

With apparent good judgment, the Emperor did not rush on out of sight.
He kept stopping and turning to discover if his much-needed assistants
in whatever cause he had at heart were following.

As a matter of fact, Tory was forgetting the seriousness of their
quest. The morning was enchantingly lovely. With the appearance of her
uncle her fears had subsided.

Doubtless Memory Frean would make her way home in their absence and
discover that the House in the Woods had sheltered an unknown occupant
during the night.

Overhead the long feathery fingers of snow suspended from the branches
of the trees sparkled and swung, falling to earth at the lightest
breath of wind.

In truth the morning was remarkably still, as suddenly toward dawn the
storm had ceased entirely.

Tory affectionately studied her uncle, his fine scholarly face
unusually reddened and glowing by the surprising exertions of his
struggles through the drifted snow. His shoulders, oftentimes slightly
bowed, were now erect in order that he might better survey his
surroundings.

Plainly he was more troubled than Tory by what might lie ahead.

Suddenly the Emperor halted and glanced backward with an expression of
imploring anxiety, then swerving toward the left, he galloped toward a
small grove of pine trees. His patience was finally exhausted.

Mr. Fenton brought his horse to a standstill.

“Stay here, please, Tory,” he said quietly, but in a tone of authority
that would be instinctively obeyed.

More cautiously and slowly he followed their guide.

Tory suffered in the next interval of ten minutes.

She watched Mr. Fenton striding through the opening toward the small
grove of trees. Then from her present position she was unable to see
him.

Of course it was only a few moments, but it seemed interminable to Tory
before she heard him calling her name in a tone of voice entirely new
to her ears.

It left no room for hesitation or doubt.

Getting out of the sleigh, she ran in the direction she had seen Mr.
Fenton take, fighting her way with her arms and hands as well as her
feet and legs.

Without realizing what she had done, she left the horse standing midway
in the snow-piled country road.

Before Tory reached the grove of trees Mr. Fenton appeared at the edge,
his dark figure against the white background. He was staggering under a
heavy load.

No longer running ahead but close beside him stalked the Emperor with
downcast head.

Tory gave a cry of mingled fear and pain.

The weight Mr. Fenton was carrying was the figure of a woman. Her coat
was encrusted with snow, her body appeared entirely limp and lifeless.
About the figure there was a bewildering familiarity.

An instant Tory sank to the ground. Memory Frean had been out all night
trying to find her way home to the House in the Woods. She, of all
persons, to have lost her way in a storm, with her knowledge of the
outdoor world!

What must be done? Tory rose up but did not go forward to offer aid.
Instead, she floundered back the way she had come, not many yards in
reality. As soon as possible she reached her horse’s head and attempted
to turn him from the road.

The idea was her own, but Mr. Fenton, appreciating the wisdom of her
plan, laid down his burden and came at once to her assistance.

They must get Miss Frean back to her own home. The distance was not
great, and now they had made a trail the return would require only a
few moments.

Inside the sleigh Tory partly supported the body of her friend, chafing
her wrists and forehead with snow and vainly trying to discover some
suggestion of life and warmth. Her face appeared as intensely white as
the snow itself.

Less than a quarter of an hour found them before the door of the House
in the Woods.

Flinging it open, Mr. Fenton, aided by Tory, carried in the woman who
had never before crossed her own threshold in such a fashion.

“Don’t close the door, please; the room must be kept cool,” Tory
demanded, when Memory Frean had been placed on the cot she herself had
occupied so short a time before. If she had believed the long night
difficult, how much worse had she known the truth! Not far away the
friend, dearer to her than any other woman, was perhaps dying near her
own door!

There was still hope, but little more than hope. How many hours Memory
Frean had been seeking shelter there was no way to conjecture!

Tory realized that she had forgotten the first aid in the emergency
that faced her uncle and herself. She could recall only this one fact:
the change in the temperature must not be too decided. On Memory
Frean’s table amid her most cherished books lay a Scout manual.

Tory’s hands seemed frozen and helpless as she searched for the desired
page. After a hurried glance about the unfamiliar room, Mr. Fenton had
disappeared, murmuring that he would return as soon as possible. He
must in some way get word to the doctor. He appeared strangely annoyed
that Miss Frean had no telephone. Tory had learned to understand that
Mr. Fenton was often irritable when he was most deeply concerned and
distressed.

His going made no especial difference. Alone Tory was struggling to
remove Miss Frean’s stiff clothes, now wet and clinging from the change
to the indoors.

Now and then she called her friend’s name, not expecting a response.

Sitting beside her what seemed an endless time, Tory continued rubbing
her with rough cloths wet in cold water.

As Tory worked, her mind felt extraordinarily clear.

She recalled her first meeting with Memory Frean on the autumn road a
little more than a year before, and the gift of the Indian talisman, an
eagle’s feather.

Later she remembered the evening in the old Fenton drawing-room when
she made the surprising discovery that her uncle and Miss Frean had
been devoted friends many years before, but of late had seen nothing of
each other.

If the room in which she and Miss Frean were at this tragic moment had
since grown almost as familiar as her own, she recalled the impression
it first had made upon her. She had realized that it possessed a
kind of fine simplicity like the woman it sheltered. Tory’s artistic
temperament demanded that the outward form be the expression of the
inner nature. How many pleasant hours she and Memory Frean had passed
together in this room! They were more than pleasant hours, they had
been inspiring. Only the night before she had come to seek the same
inspiration. Must the past be all she would ever have from the friend
so still and serene beside her?

Once only Tory arose. The fire was dying out. She must not allow this
to happen, as Dr. McClain might desire the room to be warmer. There was
one small log. It must be sufficient; not for another moment could she
relax her vigilance.

If only she could discover the faintest warmth, one flicker of life,
the lifting of an eyelash, what comfort!

Of all her Troop of Girl Scouts why should she, the most inadequate of
them all, be the one to meet this disaster? So far Tory had not called
it by any other name, although behind her outer consciousness there was
an impression she resolutely declined to face.

Upon Mr. Fenton’s return she scarcely paid any attention to him save to
say what he should do to assist her. She was aware that he looked older
than she had ever seen him as he awkwardly attempted to follow her
directions.

Incredibly short as the time was, in reality it was an eternity to Tory
before Dr. McClain’s car drew up before the House in the Woods.

He came in, followed by a nurse and Dorothy McClain.

As Tory attempted to move and give place to them, she found her legs
suddenly unable to do her bidding. She had grown rigid and would have
fallen save that Dorothy McClain caught her.

She almost carried her out of the room into the little kitchen that
adjoined the living-room.

“You must not give up now, dear; father may need our aid. I don’t
believe you have had any breakfast. We will all be wanting coffee by
and by. We were just sitting down to the table when the message came.
Don’t be disheartened. Miss Frean will recover, she is so beautifully
healthy and strong. Remember what an outdoor life she has led!”

As Dorothy chattered on to distract the other girl’s attention, she
was busily doing a number of important acts--lighting an oil stove and
placing water to boil, finding the coffee and setting a corner of the
kitchen table with a cup, saucer and plate.

Still Tory sat in the chair where she had been placed, but by and by
drank some coffee and suggested that Mr. Fenton be persuaded to do the
same thing.

For a little Dorothy’s hopefulness and warm vitality wakened a response
in her. This ebbed away as the moments passed and no word came that
Miss Frean was recovering consciousness.

Now and then, like a chord repeating itself, a quotation she had
learned the evening before came and went in her consciousness:

“We will work thy will, who love thee.”



CHAPTER IV

TORY’S DREAMS


Several weeks later Dorothy McClain and Victoria Drew were again in the
kitchen adjoining the living-room of the House in the Woods.

Upon this afternoon their state of mind was altogether unlike their
former one. This was apparent both in manner and expression.

Over their Girl Scout costumes they were wearing semiofficial nursing
uniforms, white cotton dresses and caps of their own design.

At present Dorothy McClain was leaning anxiously over the kitchen stove
stirring a kettle of simmering milk into which she had just measured
a proper amount of cocoa. Her face was flushed and she was looking so
pretty that Tory sat watching her with a smile of satisfaction. She
herself was engaged in cutting thin slices of bread. Of late more than
one cause had conspired to make Dorothy less happy than usual.

“I do hope the first visit from our entire Patrol of Girl Scouts will
not be too tiring for Miss Frean,” Dorothy remarked, aware that the
other girl’s eyes were upon her and desiring to change the current of
her thought.

Tory paused reflectively.

“I do not think it will hurt her in the least,” she announced. “You
seem to forget that your father gave his consent to our meeting here
a week ago and that Miss Mason, our Scout Captain, insisted on the
delay. If Memory has recovered sufficiently to give up her trained
nurse and submit to our ministrations for the past ten days, she is
well enough for our tea party. The Girl Scouts have haunted the place
ever since her illness. I suppose in a way it was a relief when she and
Dr. McClain agreed to allow us to do the nursing, provided only two
of us at a time would take charge. I specially asked to have you with
me, Dorothy, as we were together on the morning when we suffered such
suspense.”

Dorothy McClain straightened up and glanced around, the color slowly
ebbing from her face and her clear eyes becoming disturbed and wistful.

“I wish all suspense ended in so happy a fashion, Tory dear!”

In her white cap and gown, with her dark eyes, slender face and full
red lips, Tory appeared especially attractive. Her reddish gold hair,
worn short, could not be tucked out of sight, but made a bright effect
of contrasting color.

She drew her brows together and frowned, not angrily but seriously.

“The other thing you are thinking of will turn out happily soon,
Dorothy, I am sure. Lance is a dreamer and I suppose is selfish, but
Christmas is nearly here and he cannot let the Christmas season go by
without writing your father and you where he is and what he is doing.
It would be too hateful and too ungrateful!”

The other girl shook her head.

“You don’t know Lance as I do, Tory, although you may believe
you understand each other because you both possess the artistic
temperament, or think you possess it. Lance will never willingly let
us know what has become of him until he has accomplished at least a
portion of what he hoped for. You need not think he does not suffer
and long for father and Don and me. But he realized this before he
went away and decided at last he could not endure to wait longer for
a chance to study his beloved music. Lance used so often to tell me
music was not like the other arts; unless one learned when one was
young there was no opportunity afterwards.”

“Then you forgive Lance for all he has made you and your father and Don
suffer? You do care for him more than your other brothers?”

The girl who had been questioned shook her head thoughtfully.

“I don’t know. I have not been able to make up my mind; perhaps I shall
know some day. I only said I understood. If we could only be sure that
Lance would send for some one or let us know if he were ill, father
and I would be less miserable! We both realize that is just what Lance
will never do. If he has made a mistake, he will feel he should pay for
it. But please, Tory, let us talk of something else. I want to forget
everything but our Scout meeting this afternoon. You have finished the
bread and I’ll butter it. The chocolate will keep warm at the back of
the stove. Suppose you see if Miss Frean wishes anything before the
girls and Miss Mason arrive.”

Appreciating that Dorothy really wished to be alone for a few moments,
Tory slipped away.

The only girl in a family of six brothers, Dorothy McClain held a
peculiar affection for one of the brothers nearest her own age. Donald
and Lance McClain were twins, and yet totally unlike in appearance and
character. Donald was, like his sister, tall, with chestnut hair and
blue eyes, and a love for athletic sports and the outdoors. Simple and
normal in their habits and tastes, it had not always been easy for them
to endure the vagaries of Lance, in spite of their devotion to him.
The odd member of the family, Lance McClain had a passionate devotion
for music with which no one of them could sympathize. He did not seem
possessed of a remarkable genius; at least his father considered that
he had only talent, and that music was no profession for a boy who was
forced to earn his own living.

With six sons and a daughter, Dr. McClain, a village physician, did
not see how it would be possible to give the delicate, erratic boy
the musical education he would require. A few weeks before Lance had
disappeared from his home in the small town of Westhaven, and so far
no word had come from him. Remembering that he had threatened to spend
the winter in New York, there could be but little doubt that he was in
hiding there.

To-day the living-room of the House in the Woods was more than
ordinarily lovely. Its simplicity, which approached austerity, was
relieved by half a dozen vases and bowls of flowers. The eye fell at
once upon a bouquet of red roses and violets in the center of a table
near a big chair where a woman was half seated and half reclining. An
open book was in her hands.

Tory looked from one to the other.

She was aware that the older woman had become handsomer since her
illness. The heavy dark hair was more carefully arranged, since Tory
herself was responsible for it. The weeks of rest and, had the girl
known it, companionship, as well as other things, had softened and made
more gentle the strong face with the blue, serious eyes.

“You appear to have grown into a very popular person in Westhaven,
Memory,” Tory said irrelevantly, “and yet I recall that at our first
meeting I was made to believe by you that you possessed only a few
friends in the village. I wonder why you thought this? Please put down
what you are reading and tell me.”

Miss Frean closed her book.

“Do you know, Tory, that since I have been nursed by seven of the
eight girls of your Eagle’s Wing Patrol and the one Girl Guide who is
a guest of honor, I have reached this conclusion: You are the most
autocratic of the group, even if your manner now and then conceals the
fact. Still, you saved my life, didn’t you, dear? I consider you saved
it, spending the night here and coming to search for me, and the first
aid you gave me before any one else was here to help. So I presume I
owe you thanks.”

The girl shook her head.

“I have explained to you half a dozen times, Memory, that it was Uncle
Richard who saved you, not I. I had made up my mind I did not dare
face the storm alone, when he made his unexpected appearance at your
door. It is not like you to seem so unwilling to be grateful to him. I
told him that you said he was not to send you flowers every day. As he
made no answer, I don’t think he intends to obey. Still, you have not
answered my question.”

“Oh, yes, I have, Tory. I _was_ unpopular in the village before we
made friends and I became a member of your Girl Scout Council. Don’t
you hear the others coming? I am as excited as a girl having a first
party.”

Miss Frean crossed the room toward the window. She wore a dress of
heavy blue silk, made simply, with a cord as a girdle. Tory had
insisted upon her buying the dress, as she owned no proper costume in
which to be a convalescent. As a matter of fact, Tory had made the
discovery that the older woman was not so poor as the simplicity of her
living made one believe. She was possessed of only a small income, but
had written several books upon birds and flowers under an assumed name
which increased the amount. This she did not care to have people know.
She preferred bestowing the money upon persons who were in need without
allowing them to guess the source.

“You are a beauty, Memory Frean! I did not think so when I first knew
you,” Tory remarked, following her friend to the window and drawing her
back toward the warmer shelter of the room.

“Remember, please, Dr. McClain says you are not yet to expose yourself
to the cold. It was dreadfully stupid of any one who knows as much as
you do of the outdoors to have attempted to reach home in such a storm
as you dared. Henceforth in spite of your nature lore you will have
sometimes to do what you are told.”

Leaning over, the older woman gave Tory a sudden, unexpected embrace.
Demonstration was unusual with her.

“You flatter and scold in the same breath, Tory. I am glad you think I
am prettier. No woman ever grows too old or too sensible not to wish to
hear this compliment.

“Now I am convinced I hear our visitors; please open the front door, if
I am not to be allowed to do it.”

An hour later eight girls, their hostess and Sheila Mason, the Scout
Captain, were seated close together, facing the log fire.

“I think you might tell your dream now, Tory,” Miss Frean suggested,
half amused and half serious.

“My dream?” Tory answered, bright spots of color showing in her
ordinarily pale cheeks. “I studied the background of my dream on the
long winter night when I stayed here alone awaiting Memory Frean’s
return.”



CHAPTER V

CHRISTMAS EVE


Not long after, the Christmas holidays began. Any number of
entertainments would be given in Westhaven in which the Girl Scouts of
the Eagle’s Wing would be included. One evening they intended to make
peculiarly their own.

In several homes in the village they felt perfectly privileged to hold
their meetings, to give parties, or do whatever the occasion required.

Miss Victoria Fenton having learned the purpose and the influence of
the Scouts, the old Fenton house was at any time at their disposal.
Mrs. Peters, Joan’s mother, had urged the girls to come at any time to
their old-fashioned cottage, wide and empty, which sat some distance
back from the street, offering a fine, open space for the outdoor drill
and signalings.

Sheila Mason, the Troop Captain, was an only daughter, and her parents
among the wealthiest families in Westhaven. If for no other reason
than the miracle Mrs. Mason insisted had been wrought in her daughter’s
life by her work among the Girl Scouts, she would have freely given
up her home to their use at a moment’s notice. Months before Sheila
Mason seemed to have lost all interest in life, when her lover, to whom
she had been engaged, was killed at the battle of Château-Thierry.
Persuaded by the first Patrol of Girl Scouts in Westhaven to become
their Captain, so engrossed had she grown in her work and in the girls
themselves that oftentimes her former happy nature reappeared.

Members of their Council, made up of the most prominent and interesting
people in Westhaven, were glad to be of service at any time.

Nevertheless, when a choice had to be made of a place for their
Christmas entertainment there was not one dissenting voice: Memory
Frean’s little House in the Woods! Here was an intimacy and an
atmosphere they found nowhere else.

Moreover, as the character of the entertainment was to be a secret from
all outsiders, it was much simpler to manage at a distance from town.
Memory Frean was well again and as interested in their idea as the
girls themselves.

Certainly the living-room at the House in the Woods was so transformed
on the afternoon of Christmas Eve that one would never have recognized
it. The walls were massed with pine and cedar and holly.

Raised upon a dais was an arm chair covered with a piece of tapestry
worked in gold dragons.

Below, and filling the entire center of the room, was a circular table.

Extending around the walls of the room were eight banners of silver
cloth, bearing no inscriptions save an embroidered design of an eagle’s
wing.

Crossed over the mantel were the American flag and the flag of the Girl
Scout Troop.

At nine o’clock there was a pealing of Christmas bells that swung
like a censer above the round table from which a white dove also was
suspended.

“Shall we read Kara’s poem that she sent from the hospital in New York
as a greeting to us before we begin the other ceremony?” Tory Drew
inquired.

She wore an unusual costume, but one exactly like the rest of the
girls. It was composed of a stiff material, a silver cloth of cotton
and silk. Cut in straight lines, it had no ornamentation save a silver
girdle about an inch wide and loosely tied about the waist.

Undoubtedly the costumes were striking and original and strangely
becoming.

“I have asked Margaret Hale to read Kara’s verse, for one reason
because she will do it so much better than I, and for another because
I so regret Kara’s not being with us to-night of all nights that I do
not trust myself. I was to tell you that Kara writes she is not under
the impression that she is a poet. Being in a hospital several months
has forced her to spend so much time alone that she devotes many hours
to thinking of us and our holiday together last summer in Beechwood
Forest.[B] Small wonder that Kara is more devoted to the evergreen
cottage than the rest of us because of its association with her past!”

  [Footnote B: See “Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest.”]

Margaret Hale arose. She was a tall, fair girl of about fifteen who
had been first chosen Patrol Leader because of her influence over the
other girls. To-night her hair was bound close about her head in broad
plaits. With her simple, severe costume the effect was more like an old
picture than a modern girl.

She read in an agreeable voice:

  “Through aisles of spreading beeches,
   ’Mid tangle of pendent vine,
   A brown road curves and reaches
   Up hillside dark with pine.

  “Shelter from scorching sunshine,
   Haven when days are drear,
   Its slogan: Do a good turn
   All ye who enter here.

  “Nights when the red logs are roaring
   Nights when the flame leaps high,
   The bright sparks snapping and soaring,
   Think of me as close by.

  “In the midst of holiday meetings
   Radiant with hope and cheer,
   A Lone Scout sends you greetings
   For Christmas and the New Year.”

When the girls had ceased discussing the little poem and Kara’s
accident the summer before, followed a sudden silence of intense and
almost painful suspense.

Sheila Mason, the Troop Captain, leaned over. Her hands were clasped
tightly together. Only a few years over twenty, with pale-gold hair and
delicate features, she was not much older in appearance than several
of her own Scouts. In fact, her own unfitness for her position had
troubled her greatly in the early days of her work as a Captain. Of
late she had become so absorbed in the work that the fear of her own
unfitness only affected her occasionally.

“Before we begin what I think is going to be a rare and wonderfully
beautiful occasion, I want to talk to you for a few moments.

“We were all, and I equally so, fascinated with Tory’s idea that for
this winter we organize our Patrol of Girl Scouts into ‘The Girl Scouts
of the Round Table’--each one of us to bear the name of one of the
Knights of the Round Table and to promise among ourselves to perform
whatever acts of valor and service we are able.

“The suggestion was fanciful, as most of Tory’s suggestions are, yet
at first I saw no reason to object. Later I began to be troubled for
fear it might in some fashion interfere with our Girl Scout principles
and organization. I wrote to the National Headquarters explaining the
situation and asking for information and advice. I assured them that
under no circumstances would we be willing to break any rule of the
organization. Our desire was to play a kind of idealized game, or
something more than a game, which would last through the winter rather
than through a single evening.

“I merely wanted to tell you we have received their consent and they
are deeply interested. Now it is growing late and we must begin.”

An unusual solemnity fell upon the little company.

The girls remained seated at the round table.

Sheila Mason arose and, flushing, partly from embarrassment and partly
from nervousness, slowly ascended the raised platform and took her seat
in the chair covered with a cloth of gold. She was wearing a costume
strikingly unlike any other. It was bright red in color, while about
her fair hair was a band of gold.

Withdrawing from the group, Miss Frean found a place nearer the fire,
but facing the eight girls about the round table. To-night her dark
hair was powdered to give a suggestion of greater age. Her toilet was a
strange one, a green and brown smock, with strange symbols covering it,
the moon and stars, and signs of the Zodiac. She was not to be one of
the Knights of the new Round Table, knighted this evening in the House
in the Woods. Instead she represented Merlin, the wise man, who “ever
served the King through magic art.”

Sheila Mason was King Arthur, “robed in red samite easily to be known.”

No formal rehearsal had taken place of the mystic ceremony the Patrol
of Girl Scouts intended to reproduce upon this Christmas Eve. Certain
details and preparations, of course, had been arranged.

A misfortune that there was no audience to behold the little company at
this moment!

The big room was beautiful with banners and evergreens. There were no
lights save the firelight and the seven branched candlesticks upon the
mantel and table. The odd costumes, the strange colors, the ardent
faces about the round table made an unforgettable picture.

Outside, the night was clear and cold and still, with a crescent moon
in the sky.

Great had been the discussion of the choice of Knight to be allotted
each Girl Scout. In the end the final decision had been left to the
Troop Captain. At present no girl knew the Knight she would portray
until her name was called and she went forward to receive her
investiture.

From her chair by the crimson and golden flames Memory Frean at this
instant repeated:

  “Then the King in low, deep tones,
   And simple words of great authority,
   Bound them by so strait vows to his own self,
   That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some
   Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,
   Some flush’d, and others dazed, as one who wakes
   Half-blinded at the coming of a light.”

“Margaret Hale.”

Surprised by hearing her own name before the others, Margaret Hale
hesitated. She then arose and, biting her lips to hide their trembling,
went forward and kneeled before the Troop Captain.

Lightly Miss Mason, as King Arthur, touched her upon the shoulder with
the point of a silver sword, exclaiming:

  “Bold Sir Bedivere, first made of all the Knights,
   Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round.”

Returning to her place, Joan Peters followed Margaret, repeating the
little act of homage before the golden chair and hearing the words:

  “Sir Percival, whom Arthur and his knighthood called the Pure.”

Tory Drew came forward to be appointed the third Knight. She looked as
if she were dreaming, as if unaware that they were only going through a
picturesque ceremony as an unusual Christmas entertainment. Of course
they intended to add a new element of romance and of service to their
work, but no one of the other girls appeared so deeply affected.

Miss Mason was conscious of this, so that Tory’s attitude influenced
her own. Moreover, Tory’s short red-gold hair, her white face with the
wide dark eyes and slender chin to-night wore an expression of singular
ardor and intensity.

The Troop Captain and her friends knew that Tory through her vivid
imagination had overleaped the bounds of centuries. She saw in vague
outline not her own Girl Scouts and Miss Mason, not the dearly beloved
room in the House in the Woods transformed to suit their purpose, but a
castle in Britain, King Arthur and his famous Knights.

Miss Mason had chosen for Tory the one Knight in all the Table Round
who seeks and finds the Holy Grail.

  “Galahad:
   And one there was among us, ever moved
   Among us in white armour, Galahad.
  ‘God make thee good as thou art beautiful,’
   Said Arthur when he dubbed him knight.”

When the winter evening had passed into a memory, there was a
never-ending argument as to which one of the eight girls made the most
impressive Knight. Of the three who stood out from the rest, Dorothy
McClain was perhaps the favorite.

Her height and athletic figure, the slender, upright shoulders and the
upward lift of her head gave her a kind of frank and boyish air. She
was more conscious than Tory of herself and her surroundings, for she
flushed hotly. Then the color left her cheeks after her investiture:

  “Gareth, the last tall son of Lot and Bellicent.
   A knight of Arthur working out his will,
   Follow the Christ, the King,
   Live pure, speak true, right wrong,
   Else wherefore born?”

Teresa Peterson felt pleased with the selection the Troop Captain made
for her. Not that she saw any particular meaning in the ceremony, save
that it was picturesque and afforded an opportunity for wearing a
fancy costume. She was looking forward with keener anticipation to the
dance Margaret Hale was to give the Girl and Boy Scouts later in the
Christmas holidays.

Nevertheless, her dusky face with soft curling, dark hair and pouting
lips appeared serene and good-humored as she accepted her new title.

  “Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
   Past, and the sunshine came along with him.
   Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King,
   All that belongs to knighthood. And I love
   This new Knight, Sir Pelleas of the Isles.”

Edith Linder became Tristram:

  “One knight
   And armoured all in forest green, whereon
   There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,
   And wearing but a holly spray for crest
   With ever scattering berries, and a shield,
   A harp, a spear, a bugle.
   Sir Tristram of the Woods.”

Characteristic of Louise Miller that a burning sense of her own
awkwardness and unworthiness almost destroyed the pleasure she would
otherwise have felt in her knighthood!

  “In the midnight and flourish of his May,
   Gawain, surnamed the Courteous,
   Fair and strong.”

Martha Greaves, the English Girl Guide, who had spent the previous
summer in Beechwood Forest with the Girl Scouts of the Eagle’s Wing,
had not returned to her home in England with the close of the summer.
She had no parents to call her back and preferred to remain until the
return to Westhaven of Tory Drew’s father and stepmother; the latter
was her cousin and nearest relative. She was not, however, living
with Tory in the old Fenton homestead, but boarding with Mr. and Mrs.
Peters, Joan’s father and mother.

Martha had insisted that she had no place in to-night’s ceremony,
notwithstanding the fact that as an English girl she might have a
closer historical claim than the others. However, she yielded to the
persuasion of the Girl Scouts. This evening she had discarded her Girl
Guide uniform and wore the knightly costume of the others:

  “Geraint,
   The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur’s court,
   Wearing neither hunting dress
   Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
   A purple scarf, at either end whereof
   There swung an apple of the purest gold.”



CHAPTER VI

A CHRISTMAS DANCE


The ceremony of the Knights of the Round Table had proved more serious
in character than the Girl Scouts had anticipated. Margaret Hale’s
dance, which occurred the evening following Christmas, came as a
pleasant contrast.

Her home was a large modern one with drawing-rooms opening into each
other. About fifty guests were invited, the entire Troop of Girl Scouts
of the Eagle’s Wing, the Boy Scouts, who were personal friends of
Margaret and her younger sisters, and a few outside friends.

The dance was called “a small and early.” The guests were invited from
eight until twelve. The fashion of arriving late and remaining until
toward morning did not meet with the approval of the host and hostess.

To assist in making a success of this idea, Margaret’s own Patrol of
Scouts had promised to arrive promptly.

Mr. Fenton was to escort Tory to the dance, and had promised to stay
for an hour as a spectator.

Donald McClain had asked Tory to go with him, explaining that his
sister Dorothy was to be escorted by one of their boy friends. Tory had
declined. She had experienced some difficulty in inducing her uncle to
be present at a dancing party. He had not attended one in twenty years.
Moreover, they had promised to drive out to the House in the Woods and
bring Miss Frean back with them.

Don seemed hurt, even a little angry, and Tory was puzzled. Later,
she concluded that he and Dorothy were both so unhappy over Lance’s
disappearance that they were unlike themselves. She was delighted when
Dorothy told her afterwards that Don was to take Teresa in her stead.
Teresa would be happy and, Tory thought, a better partner.

The eight girls in the Patrol that now included the English girl,
Martha Greaves, a temporary substitute for Katherine Moore, had agreed
to dress in white with coral-colored ribbons.

Kara had written a rather pathetic little note of refusal to Margaret’s
invitation from her hospital in New York. Before the accident that
caused her lameness she had loved dancing more than any one of her
friends. Now at Christmas time it was particularly hard to feel always
resigned and cheerful. Only one fact gave her courage. Tory Drew’s
Christmas gift from Mr. Fenton was to be a trip to New York to see her.
Recently he had included Dorothy McClain in the invitation. Mr. Fenton
and Dr. McClain had been friends since boyhood, and Dorothy appeared in
need of a change for the first time in her life.

Among the dancers the eight Girl Scouts of the one Patrol were easily
distinguished from the others. Their white gowns with coral ribbons
showed plainly among the rainbow-hued toilets of their friends.

The dance was informal and there were no programs. Nevertheless, toward
the latter part of the evening Tory Drew was troubled by the fact that
it was after ten o’clock and Donald had not asked her for a single
dance.

Soon after their arrival they had bowed and smiled to each other over
the heads of the dancers and Donald had not appeared angry. Tory had
not given this idea any consideration at the time. She had merely
thought how handsome and strong Don looked, and what an admirable
contrast he and Teresa made.

Don was so tall and fair, with clear blue eyes and fresh skin, and
Teresa like a colorful flower with her dusky hair and dark eyes and
brilliant rose cheeks. She was small and her figure prettily rounded.
Best of all, Teresa had never seemed happier! She wore a small bunch
of violets at her waist that Tory recognized as coming from the hotbed
that was Don’s especial pride and pleasure. He had brought the violets
in from the woods, built the glass house that sheltered them and
devoted a certain time each day to their care.

Occasionally Tory had been presented with a small offering of Don’s
violets, but never so many as Teresa wore to-night.

In the midst of a dance with one of the Boy Scouts in Don’s Patrol, Tom
Oliver, an especial friend of her own, Tory felt confused and annoyed.

How quickly Teresa was able to transfer her liking from one brother to
the other! They were not in the least similar in manner or appearance,
in spite of being twins, so this excuse could not be offered. Yet
undoubtedly Teresa had been especially friendly with Lance McClain
during the past summer in Beechwood Forest.

Then Tory’s partner made some remark and she forgot what she had been
thinking. It was the merest chance that she was again dancing with Tom
Oliver, more than an hour after, when the reflection that Donald had
ignored her all evening recurred with especial force. Tory was fond of
Don, and sorry.

Toward the close of this same dance, Tom Oliver felt an unexpected
touch on his arm. He paused.

“If Tory is willing when you have finished this dance, may I speak to
her?” Donald inquired.

Tory nodded, feeling a mingled sense of pleasure and uncertainty.

Why was Don so serious? He had not appeared so an hour, not a half hour
before. Had he recently received bad news? Could anything have been
heard from Lance?

Tory’s eyes wandered among the dancers until she caught sight of
Dorothy McClain, tall and fair and handsome. She looked more cheerful
than in some time past, not less so. Therefore whatever information
may have come to Don, he had not yet imparted to his sister. It then
occurred to Tory that Don might be wishing to tell her first and ask
her help.

She was glad when her own dance was finished and Don was found standing
at her elbow.

“Come on, Tory, please, I want to talk to you and I think I know a
halfway quiet place,” he announced, and led the way.

Accustomed to Don’s directness, without thinking of disputing it, Tory
slipped out after him, avoiding speaking or catching the eye of any one
who might stop them even for a moment.

The quiet spot was a pile of cushions under the bend of the long flight
of stairs, partly concealed by palms.

Even after they were comfortably settled Don did not speak immediately.

Accustomed to his slowness, Tory did not ordinarily object, but
to-night she was impatient.

“What is it, Don? You have not come near me all evening! Have you had
word from Lance that he is not well or that anything has happened to
him? Please tell me at once.”

Still for another moment there was no answer, and afterwards Tory was
too startled by Don’s answer to reply.

Immediately Don apologized.

“I am sorry, Tory. I ought not to have said such a thing to you or to
any one else. So far as I can recall I never made such a hateful speech
about Lance in my life. I hope I never will again. But this business
of Lance’s behaving like a kid of five or six years old has been too
much for me. It is the worst thing that has happened in our family
since my mother’s death.

“The rest of us have always suspected Lance was father’s favorite,
chiefly because he looks like my mother and has been so delicate. Since
Lance cleared out there is no doubt of the matter. Father has grown to
look ten years older in these last few weeks. He says he is not going
to look for Lance, that when he has had enough he will come home.
Just the same, he does not have a moment free from uneasiness. He is
crazy to find Lance, and I know he wants you and Dorothy to search for
him when you go up to New York for your holiday. Wish I were coming
along! Not that I’d waste any time troubling to find Lance. He deserves
whatever comes to him. He always was an idiot, but I did not dream such
a one as he has proved himself.”

In spite of Don’s almost sullen manner Tory partly understood his state
of mind. In the year of their acquaintance, living across the street
from each other, and Tory one of his sister’s most intimate friends,
she had appreciated many points about Don that most people failed to
realize.

He hated to see people unhappy and would make almost any sacrifice to
save them from unhappiness, provided he could grasp the cause of their
trouble. In any and every illness Lance had suffered during their
boyhood, Don had devoted himself to his whims. He had admired Lance’s
cleverness, his sense of humor, even his talent for music up to the
present. Now he was puzzled and troubled and resentful. If he had not
thought Lance as selfish as the rest of the family considered him, now
he believed him more so.

“You see, Tory, no one talks or thinks of any one but Lance at our
house these days, if father is not around. Dot has nearly made herself
ill worrying over him. Now when I have something rather special I want
to confide to you and have been trying for the opportunity all evening,
you begin by asking about Lance and looking nervous and miserable.

“Lance McClain is under the impression that he has such a talent for
music he can’t live any longer without his chance. Maybe he thinks that
music can’t live without him. It is the biggest--well, I won’t say
what, I ever heard of in my life. I give him about two months more of
half-starving to death in New York and he never will want to hear the
word music again.”

Tory shook her head.

“No use trying to argue the matter with you, Don. You won’t agree with
me, but you are mistaken about Lance.

“Let us not talk about him any more. Please tell me the something
‘rather special’ you intended to tell me. I am dying to hear. And I am
awfully glad you have not been angry and avoided me on purpose during
the evening.”

Donald’s clear fresh skin colored. He seemed mollified by Tory’s little
friendly speech and slightly ashamed of his own unusual attitude.

He admired Tory Drew more than any one of Dorothy’s friends. She might
not be so pretty as several of the others; he had no way of knowing,
since to him she possessed so much more interest and charm.

He liked her pallor, the red-gold of her hair and her wide, friendly
dark eyes. She did not seem to have a trace of self-consciousness like
so many other girls. Nor did Don consider that she had half as much
vanity as she had the right to reveal. She had seen so much more of
the world, traveling abroad with her artist father until her arrival
in Westhaven the year before, small wonder that her manners were
attractive.

“It is only a small matter after all, Tory. I have been voted the most
popular fellow in my class and chosen Class President for the year.
What a duffer I sound telling you in this fashion! After all, I suppose
I am more of an ass than Lance. And by the way, Tory, it is not true
I would not search for him if I had a chance or go to him if he is in
trouble. I suppose you are right. He may be a kind of a halfway genius
and an ordinary fellow like I am can’t be expected to understand him.

“You’ll dance with me as often as you can for the rest of the evening?”
Tory agreed.



CHAPTER VII

A CITY OF TOWERS


Neither Dorothy McClain nor Victoria Drew possessed any real
acquaintance with New York City. Dorothy had been there only once as a
little girl of six years old on a shopping expedition with her mother.
Tory had arrived in New York with the friends from on board the steamer
that sailed from Cherbourg. She had, however, spent only a single night
at a hotel, leaving next morning for Westhaven, a few hours’ journey
away.

Therefore, the ride into the city was not sufficiently long to cover
the emotions it held for both girls. They were to spend four or five
days in the city, that Mr. Fenton declared the most beautiful and
stimulating in the world.

Tory did not agree with Mr. Fenton’s estimate of New York, but she was
willing to be convinced.

He was interested to watch the effect the great city might have upon
Tory’s impressionable nature, believing that Dorothy’s quieter outlook
would prove a comfortable balance.

The day was clear; there was no trace of the snowstorms that had left
patches of snow upon the fields and gardens of Westhaven.

Driving up Fifth Avenue to their hotel, a little beyond the center of
Manhattan Island, the atmosphere appeared more glistening than the
white face of the snow. The sun struck golden rays across the high
buildings, their towers seemed to swim in a clear light with a deep
blue sky above.

The people came and went so rapidly on the sidewalks that Tory and
Dorothy were aghast. Neither said anything, yet they were grateful
when a policeman halted the traffic and they were able to get a more
steadfast view of their surroundings.

Tory’s face shone, her dark eyes widened, her lips parted with that
eager expression of desire that her uncle loved and a little feared.
No one who had not known him as a boy would have believed that he too
once possessed her ardent interest in life. He had let so much slip by
him--a home, a family, a career. Were it possible, he did not intend
that Tory should sacrifice so much!

“It is a wonder city, a city of towers, Uncle Richard,” Tory whispered.
“I am not sure I like it so well as London and Paris. Somehow it
reminds me a little of both, and yet is like neither.”

Dorothy laughed.

“You know, Mr. Fenton, that sounds as Tory’s speeches so often do. So
many ideas come to her at once that she pours them out in a single
breath and makes her audience gather up the lost threads.

“If Lance is working here in New York I do not believe he is so unhappy
as Don and I usually think he is.”

Nothing save luncheon and placing their suitcases in their room kept
the two girls from going directly to Kara.

Tory had written her to say they would appear early in the afternoon.

The hospital was some distance uptown, but they reached it in an
amazingly short time by the subway.

Mr. Fenton escorted the girls, but left them at the hospital entrance,
promising to return later.

Tory’s arms were filled with red roses she had purchased from the
florist on the corner after they left the subway. Dorothy’s gift was
more modest, a bunch of claret-colored grapes.

Nevertheless, at the threshold of the hospital the girls halted.

“I don’t know exactly why, but I rather dread going in, don’t you,
Tory?” Dorothy murmured. “Oh, well, I presume you are not so stupid!
For a doctor’s daughter, I am singularly nervous about illness. And I
never have grown accustomed to the thought of Kara’s misfortune.”

The other girl shook her head.

“Let’s not talk of it now. Kara is waiting and might guess how we feel.”

Receiving uncertain directions from a nurse, the visitors wandered down
a scrupulously sanitary hall, to knock timidly upon a door, numbered 17.

It was Kara’s voice that answered: “Come in.”

When the door opened she moved toward them on two crutches, very timid
and haltingly.

Before they could do more than exclaim, she seated herself in a chair,
the old humorous expression about the corners of her lips and eyes
reappearing.

“I am not a pedestrian yet. But this is better than sitting still
forever. Come here and let me embrace you both at once. Dorothy,
please see that Tory does not weep and spoil my red roses. I suppose
they are mine.”

After a little the girls found cushions and placed themselves on the
floor at Kara’s feet.

“Now tell me every single thing that has happened since I left,” she
said. “Don’t think anything is too unimportant.”

“But, Kara, won’t you tell us first? It is so hard to wait,” Tory
pleaded.

No need to inquire what she meant.

The thin face with the beautiful gray eyes and long dark lashes, the
lips grown thinner and less colorful in these past months, slowly
parted.

“There is not so much to tell you as I hoped when I wrote you. Waiting
and hoping are still my passwords.

“I am far happier. See the lovely things I have made! I have been
practicing dress-making and weaving and basket-making, whatever I can
do with my hands. I want you to take what you wish for gifts and show
the rest to our Girl Scout Council so that I may pass my proficiency
tests. I am afraid I cannot manage to be a First Class Scout so soon as
the other girls, but I don’t want to fall too far behind.”

“If the decision were mine you would be a First Class Scout now, Kara.
By the way, we have brought you a banner.” Dorothy unrolled a package.

It revealed one of the banners that had hung among the evergreens high
up on the wall of the House in the Woods on Christmas Eve.

“We were to declare you one of the Knights of our Round Table, Kara.”
Tory smiled. “I have an order from King Arthur. Do you wish to be Sir
Boris, whose eyes were an outdoor sign of all the warmth within, or Sir
Lancelot, ‘his warrior, whom King Arthur loved and honored most, first
in tournament’?”

Kara shook her head with emphasis, her eyes resting with affection and
amusement on one of the faces upturned toward hers.

“Good gracious, I don’t wish to be any kind of Knight of any Round
Table! For me it is enough to be a Girl Scout. I am sure the idea of
the Girl Scouts of the Round Table originated with you, Tory.”

Tory flushed.

“Yes, there isn’t any harm. The Girl Scout organization does not
object. The truth is we were not so interested in our Girl Scout work
this winter as we had been in the past. We missed being together at
camp and the outdoor sports and opportunities. Then, too, we missed
you, Kara. Miss Mason realized this and we talked things over together,
wondering what we had best do. Then one night when I was alone at Miss
Frean’s I read the story of the Round Table. Later we decided to have a
Round Table of our own. Few of our winter meetings can take place out
of doors, so we have decided to hold our Patrol meetings about a round
table. On our banners we can embroider whatever good deeds we have
accomplished. The other girls are pleased with the idea, Kara, but you
are always a practical person to the last.”

“I am interested, Tory, only I am too much an outsider now to
understand.

“I have one important piece of news. Remember the letters found in the
evergreen cottage at the close of our holiday in Beechwood Forest? I
gave them to Mr. Hammond for safe keeping, when I believed they had
nothing to do with the fact that I was found deserted in the cabin
years before. You know Mr. and Mrs. Hammond are in town and often bring
Lucy to see me.

“Well, the other day Mr. Hammond by chance observed an advertisement in
a morning paper signed with the name used in one of the old letters.
The advertisement asked that some one from Westhaven communicate with
the writer. Mr. Hammond wrote and is to see the person next week. Not
one chance in a thousand that your humble servant is connected with
the mystery! But Mr. Hammond and I decided that it was one way to keep
oneself from being dull.”

“I am afraid it does not sound very hopeful, dear,” Dorothy answered
reluctantly. “Would you like to hear about Lance?”

At this instant there was a knock on the door and before Kara could
reply a nurse suggested that the visit must end.

The girls might return another afternoon, but a half hour’s call was
all that was allowed at one time.



CHAPTER VIII

THE CALL


Among the excitements of Tory’s visit to New York was a call she was to
make upon an artist friend of her father’s.

Pleased with several of the sketches Tory had made during the past
summer in camp, Mr. Drew desired an opinion upon her work from some one
whose judgment he trusted. He knew himself to be too interested to be
a good critic of his daughter’s gift. Now and then he believed himself
too severe, that he expected more artistic gift than was possible in
one of Tory’s age. Again he feared that his own devotion blinded him to
conspicuous faults in her work.

So Tory brought with her a letter from her father to Philip Winslow.
She was to call by appointment on a certain afternoon at his studio in
the downtown section of the city.

Dorothy accompanied her, and the two girls discovered the house without
difficulty, an old, somewhat dilapidated building, with the paint
peeling from the house and a long flight of steps leading from the
front door.

Philip Winslow was not a successful artist from the standpoint of
worldly prosperity. His painting had never met with the recognition
that his fellow-artists believed should have been his. He had, however,
chosen to do the character of work he liked without consideration of
the public.

More popular and with a reputation in two continents, nevertheless
Tory’s father considered his friend a greater painter than himself. If
it were possible and he were willing at any time to accept her as a
pupil, Mr. Drew greatly desired Tory to study with the other man. Armed
with half a dozen sketches and her letter, Tory and Dorothy started up
the long flight of steps. The house was five stories high. One saw from
a large north window of glass that the studio was at the top.

The girls had been going out constantly ever since their arrival,
not only in the daytime, but nightly visits with Mr. Fenton to the
different theaters.

The excitement seemed not to have had any disastrous effect upon Tory;
she was gayer and more full of energy and enthusiasm with each passing
hour.

The same thing was not true of Dorothy McClain. Dorothy was an outdoor
person who had always lived in a small village. The crowding, the
noises and the restlessness of the city she found very tiring.

On this especial expedition Tory had not considered it wise that
Dorothy accompany her. At lunch she had observed how pale and weary she
looked, suggesting that Dorothy lie down and try to sleep while she was
making her visit.

The proposal required a good deal of unselfishness upon Tory’s part.
Very especially she wished to have Dorothy with her during the
approaching interview.

She was nervous over meeting a strange artist and exhibiting her own
work. The visit in itself would not have troubled her. She had heard
her father talk of Philip Winslow many times. He owned several of
the other man’s pictures. What was embarrassing was to show him her
sketches. As each hour passed and the time drew nearer she became more
convinced they had better have been relegated to the trash basket.

She could not be sorry, therefore, when Dorothy utterly declined to
consider the idea of giving up the trip. She had never been inside an
artist’s studio in her entire existence, and she wanted to know what
this artist thought of Tory’s gift.

Moreover, Mr. Fenton had a business engagement at the same hour and
would not have been willing to permit Tory to keep her appointment
alone.

In the climb up the stairs Dorothy chanced to be in the lead. Now and
then she seemed tired and stopped for a moment to rest and get her
breath.

The character of the place was not the surprise to Tory that it was
to the other girl. In Paris and London Tory had been in old houses
converted into lodgings as poor and dark as the present one. She knew
that one might open a door and find an apartment artistically furnished
and extremely comfortable. Again, one might chance upon a room bare and
sordid, if its occupant had been in ill luck and unable to dispose of a
picture, a poem, or a play that he had thought he would be pretty sure
to sell.

At the end of the third flight of steps suddenly Dorothy sat down. She
was biting her lips and had grown so pale that Tory was alarmed.

“Good gracious, Dorothy dear, what is the matter? Can’t you go on? Had
we best go back downstairs? Are you about to faint?”

Dorothy shook her head and smiled. It was so like Tory to ask half a
dozen questions at once.

“No, nothing so dreadful as fainting. I had a sharp pain in my side and
think I had best sit still a little while.”

Dorothy’s color did not grow better. Instead, she became whiter and
caught hold of the railing for support, leaning her head against the
banister.

The other girl hesitated. Should she continue on up the two additional
flights of stairs and ask Mr. Winslow to come to their aid? Certainly
Dorothy would to faint if nothing were done to revive her! Yet she
really ought not to be left alone at present even for a few moments.

Tory glanced up and down the stairs, hoping some one might be
approaching from one or the other direction to whom she could appeal
for help.

She saw no one. She did, however, observe a door near the landing where
Dorothy was seated standing ajar. From inside she could hear faint
sounds of music, so some one must be at home.

Tory was accustomed to acting upon impulse. She did not mention to
her companion what she intended doing. She walked over and knocked on
this door. No one replied. At the same instant the notes of music grew
louder so that the musician could scarcely have heard.

Tory pushed the door open.

She then looked inside the room, planning to explain her behavior as
soon as she could attract any one’s attention.

She beheld a figure seated at a piano, with hands upon the keys and
apparently oblivious of the world.

“Lance McClain, it cannot be you!” the girl exclaimed.

There was still no answer. Dorothy McClain heard and managed to get up
and come toward the door which Tory had now opened widely.

Both girls recognized Lance, although his back was turned toward them.

He looked thinner. A sheet of music was on the rack before him and his
head was upturned. Neither girl wished to disturb him at present, not
until he had finished what he was playing. They did not move or speak
again.

Dorothy was not familiar with the music; she only realized that it
was more beautiful and more ambitious than anything Lance had ever
attempted to play at home.

Tory recognized the Andante from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. She had
heard it played by an orchestra and appreciated that the music was too
great for Lance’s meager training.

Still, there was something in his playing that held her spellbound and
brought tears to her eyes and to Dorothy’s, who now had completely
forgotten her discomfort of a short time before.

One heard the movement that sounds like the rippling of many waters,
then the siren call from the depth of the water and of life itself. At
last the beautiful, triumphant finale.

When Lance McClain ended he dropped his head on his hands.

“Lance!” Dorothy said softly.

This time Lance jumped up as if in a sudden panic of fear.

“Good gracious, Dot! It can’t be you! I am not dreaming! I have had
several confounded dreams about you and father and Don lately. But you
must be real, because here is Tory with you and it may not be polite
of me, but I am obliged to say I have not dreamed about her. Who told
you where to find me? I am as mad as a hornet and gladder than I have
ever been over more than one or two things in my life.

“You did not hear me trying to murder that Andante, did you? I hope
not. Wasn’t it awful the mistakes I made?”

This was Lance, there was no doubting it, trying to carry off a
difficult and painful situation with his old humor.

Nevertheless he kept his arm tight about Dorothy’s shoulders and at
this instant buried his head in her shoulder like a child.

“No use, Lance. I have already seen how badly you look,” Dorothy
protested. “Please let us sit down somewhere while I tell you what you
won’t believe. We found you merely by accident. Tory and I are in New
York for a few days’ holiday with Mr. Fenton. I know Mr. Fenton has
been trying to find news of you to take back to father, but has not
succeeded. Tory, will you please tell how we happened to come to this
building? One thing, Lance, I am glad to find you have such a charming
room.”

Dorothy sank down on a divan piled with sofa cushions, Lance and Tory
sitting down beside her.

“You don’t think these are my quarters, do you, Dot? That would be too
good to be true.”

Tory made her explanation very brief.

“Then if this is _not_ your room, tell us everything from the hour you
left home. What are you doing here and whose piano were you playing? I
don’t believe you have had a real meal since you ran away.”

“Don’t call it running away, please, Dot? Say I had to answer a desire
that was too strong to be resisted.

“I am afraid you and Tory will be disappointed at what I have to tell
you. I wrote to several places in New York and had secured a position
here before I lit out from home. It does not pay much and I knew father
would never believe I could live on so small a sum. I understood he
could not afford to give me anything outside and I have managed to
live, somehow!” Lance murmured under his breath. “I am busy at odd
hours and sometimes I have an afternoon free. This chanced to be one of
them.”

The boy’s expression altered.

“I have not yet told you of my good luck, and I have had more than
I deserve. You might as well know the truth. I am nothing but a
messenger boy. One afternoon I came here to this room and heard some
one playing on the piano, some one who really understood music. There
wasn’t any doubt of that blessed fact.

“I suppose I stood entranced, listening. Anyhow the musician seemed to
guess how much I cared. We began talking and I was pretty homesick and
wretched and must have poured out everything I was feeling at the time.
The result was we became friends. I suppose I have the right to say
friends. He gave me permission to come here and play on his piano when
I had an opportunity. I have a key to the door and can come and go when
I like. Something bigger and more wonderful, I am studying music with
him two evenings a week. He gives me a lesson for as long a time as he
can spare.”

There was a new tone in Lance’s voice, a boyish admiration the two
girls had never known him to feel for any one before.

Tory recalled a phrase from “The Idylls of the King”: “By all the sweet
and sudden passion of youth, Toward greatness in its elder.”

“What is your friend’s name, Lance?” Dorothy asked with added
gentleness.

Lance had found not all, but a part of what he sought!

Lance shook his head.

“I had rather not tell you. I must ask permission first. Dorothy, I am
afraid there is not much chance for me. I’ll never learn to be a real
musician. I am nearly sixteen and too old.”

“Nonsense, Lance McClain!” Tory interrupted, not having taken much part
in the conversation until the present moment. “Come on now upstairs
with Dorothy and me. We are keeping Mr. Winslow waiting. I shall need
your society to give me courage. Afterwards you are to come back with
Dorothy and me to our hotel to dinner. I will disappear for a while and
you and Dorothy can have a real talk.”



CHAPTER IX

A STUDIO TEA


The following hour was one of the most delightful the two girls and
Lance had ever spent.

Overjoyed at meeting so unexpectedly, Lance’s reluctance forgotten in
the joy of being with his sister and friend, the three of them also
came in contact with a new and charming personality and in the midst of
a new and beautiful environment.

To Tory Drew an artist’s studio was not a new experience. She had lived
with her father in several of their own. She had visited with him the
studios of many fellow-artists. But to Dorothy and to Lance a studio
outside Westhaven was a fresh interest. Although she could say no word
aloud, undoubtedly Tory would have agreed that if other studios had
been handsomer, never was one more original or charming.

The room was in gray, a cold background with the northern window save
for the warmth of the other coloring.

At this hour the winter daylight was closing in and curtains were
partly drawn; they were a curious shade, half rose, half red, and
strangely luminous.

On the gray walls were the artist’s own pictures.

They were unlike modern work, and perhaps for this reason less popular.
In landscapes and in portraiture the tones were richer and darker.

Expecting two of his three guests, Mr. Winslow had prepared for tea.

An enormous lounge, large enough for sleeping and with a high back, was
drawn up in front of a meager fire. Wood was expensive in New York City
and Philip Winslow an unsuccessful artist.

The small tea table held an array of china with scarcely two pieces
alike, yet each one rarely lovely and gathered with care and taste in
the years when their owner had studied in France and Italy. There he
had won the Prix de Rome. Not in those days did he dream of living
on the top floor of a dilapidated house, in a cheap quarter of the
greatest of American cities.

The teakettle was boiling. One could hear the hissing behind the
oriental curtains that shut off a single corner of the room.

After greeting their new acquaintance and explaining the reason why
they were later than they had planned, Lance, Dorothy and Tory seated
themselves upon the great couch. There they sat, silently watching
their host until he had vanished into his improvised kitchenette.

They were pursuing almost the same trains of thought.

A man at once younger and older than the girls expected to find him,
Philip Winslow had a mass of pale-brown hair, brushed carelessly off
a high forehead, eyes darkly brown, with a melancholy expression even
when his lips smiled. He was unusually tall, and this may partly have
accounted for his appearance of extreme thinness, although neither
girl considered this true, for he looked as if he had not long before
suffered from a serious illness.

During the hour that followed the three guests found themselves talking
to their host with entire freedom as if they had been old friends. Yet
Philip Winslow was a shy person, ordinarily talking but little himself.
Disappointment at the failure of his work and ill health had altered
his original gaiety of spirit.

Indeed, Tory Drew had often heard her father speak of him as one of the
leaders in their old-time artist frolics in the Latin Quarter.

Only once was Tory overawed by her new acquaintance. This was when
she shyly offered him her collection of sketches and sat waiting his
criticism.

She was on the great sofa facing the now dying fire, while he sat in a
small chair opposite, beneath the fading daylight.

For five, ten minutes no one spoke.

The sketches were several bits of outdoor work and two paintings of the
little girl, Lucy Martin, who was now Lucy Hammond. Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy
Hammond had formally adopted the child who had lived in the Gray House
on the Hill, the orphan asylum in the village of Westhaven.

Lucy was oddly picturesque and always Tory had longed to make a
portrait of the younger girl since their original meeting. She
appreciated, however, that she was too young and untrained for real
portraiture. Her efforts were only simple drawings, with a good deal of
boldness of color and design. Personally, Tory considered the sketches
of Lucy the best things she had ever done and had chosen them for this
reason for exhibition.

Certainly Mr. Winslow passed over the others more rapidly, keeping
these in his hands and turning his glance from one to the other.
Apparently he was hardly aware now of his guests, although a short time
before he had been so courteous and attentive.

During the interval Tory wished _some one_ would speak of _something_.
Under the circumstances she was not in the position to chatter idly,
as if she were not intensely anxious for Mr. Winslow’s opinion of her
work. But Dorothy or Lance might have talked to each other in low
voices without rudeness or interference.

Instead, they pressed close beside each other, Lance’s slender hand
clutching a fold of his sister’s dress, as if he would thus be sure
of her presence. Dorothy, without any pretence of hiding her emotion,
rarely raised her eyes from her brother’s face.

In the midst of her own nervousness Tory felt a regret that was half
envy. Who would not desire affection like Dorothy’s and her twin
brothers’? Tory so often was separated from the people she cared for
most. The devoted intimacy with her artist father had been interrupted
by his second marriage and his wish that she be brought up among her
mother’s people and in her own country. Then the friendship between
Katherine Moore and herself! Not altered by Kara’s illness--a thousand
times no; but assuredly affecting the hours they could spend together
and their happiness in each other’s society.

Would Mr. Winslow never speak? Was her work so poor that he dreaded
telling her the truth for the sake of his old affection for her father,
Tory reflected.

Biting her lips, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
If her aunt, Miss Victoria Fenton, had been able to see her at this
instant, she would have recognized one of the Fenton characteristics
she vainly had looked for in her niece--dignity in meeting defeat.

Naturally pale, Tory was possessed of less color than usual. Her lips,
therefore, appeared redder and her wide eyes darker and more wistful.
They contradicted the bravery of her attitude.

Sympathetically and encouragingly, Lance tried to sustain her through
the last of the ordeal. For the moment forgetting his sister, he
reached out to the girl on the other side of him.

He wanted to be able to explain to Tory, to make her realize that
she would _succeed_. She was made for success, even if the present
criticism should be unfavorable. She was young and would have the
opportunity given her to go on struggling for years and years. Painting
was not like music; one did not require to succeed while one was young,
one could, if necessary, work many years. For himself Lance was more
fearful.

But Tory was not interested in what he might say or think at the
present time.

Mr. Winslow was at last speaking, if only to ask a question.

“How long and with whom have you studied?” he inquired, holding up one
of the small sketches so that it formed a shield for his face.

“Why, I have never really studied at all,” Tory answered. “I mean I
have had no regular lessons. I, of course, have had the advantage of
hearing a good many clever people talk about art and I have watched my
father work and have worked beside him for as long as I can remember.
Until this winter father has believed it wiser for me not to study art.
He wanted me to learn more of other things first. He was afraid I would
lose interest in school and not be properly domestic.”

Again Mr. Winslow was silent.

“Is my work so poor? Do you think I had best give up altogether the
hope of becoming an artist?” Tory demanded, desperate at last, but at
the same time determined she would never give up.

“I am not sure, but I am going to be truthful, Tory. I am disappointed
in your work; from what your father had said and written me I had
expected more.”

The hand that had sheltered his face dropped to his lap and Tory was
angry and touched by the artist’s expression. He seemed so very sorry
for what he was saying and yet felt obliged to speak.

Making a sudden movement as if she would rescue her despised sketches,
Tory felt her hand seized and herself drawn up to stand beside the
artist.

Endeavoring to smile gallantly, she was meeting with little success.

“My dear child, you have misunderstood me. I don’t know how to make
myself clear to young people, nor to old ones for that matter. I am
far from intending to say you have no talent. I think you have talent,
although I would not have you trust my judgment altogether. What I
meant was that I was surprised you do not know more of the technical
side of your work with so successful an artist as your father is. You
have originality, but you draw badly and your coloring is--oh, well,
you see I do not agree with other artists, so perhaps you are right and
I am wrong. I don’t see why your father sent you to me for my opinion.
There are a dozen other better men he might have asked.”

Within the last few moments Tory Drew had gone through a process of
enlightenment with regard to the character of her new acquaintance. No
longer was she so deeply discouraged or unable to express herself. She
knew him to be intensely critical both of his own work and of other
people’s, deeply sensitive and yet compelled to tell the truth as he
saw it, whether it would hurt himself or others.

“Do you think I could learn to draw, learn to see color differently
and to paint it?” Tory asked with the little charming half-shy,
half-friendly manner to which most persons yielded.

Philip Winslow frowned.

“I would like to have you study with me a few years and afterwards
go to some one I recommend, if you would work. But you won’t. You
are a girl and girls don’t work, not really. But why should you?
You know what my work has brought me: poverty and but few friends,
no recognition. You need not work half so hard and will have better
fortune with any other teacher.”

Unexpectedly and light-heartedly Tory laughed.

Her two companions, Dorothy and Lance, stared at her in surprise and
in consternation. Ordinarily Tory possessed beautiful manners which
the other young people in Westhaven admired and oftentimes envied. Yet
it was not polite of Tory to laugh either in the face of Mr. Winslow’s
criticism or his bitterness with regard to himself.

“I beg your pardon,” she added an instant later. “I was only thinking.
Father told me you would say pretty much what you have said. If only
you would agree to teach me some day I must not mind anything else. I
don’t believe your work is so unpopular as you say it is. It is only
that you are not well and you are impatient and angry with people when
they don’t see things as you do. You know you really ought to be a Girl
Scout.”

Tory flushed.

“I suppose you will think I am rude. I am afraid I was really. Only you
seem to feel as I did when I came to Westhaven to live last winter and
thought no one understood or liked me. When I became a Scout I saw
things differently.”

Mr. Winslow did not appear offended by Tory’s odd speeches.

Don was right, Lance McClain thought, Tory Drew had a character of
attraction no one of her Troop of Girl Scouts possessed, except of
course their own sister, Dorothy. Dorothy was altogether different.
Lance knew that he was sufficiently like Tory in some characteristics
to understand her better than his brother or sister. They were
alike; they could admire or be angry with her, they would not always
understand her.

“Look here, Miss Victoria Drew, how old are you?” Mr. Winslow asked
abruptly. He did not appear offended, however, merely amused. “I have
been talking to you as if you were a grown woman and now you inform me
I should follow your example and become a Girl Scout. Offer me advice
that is a little less impossible! Besides, what or who is a Girl Scout?”

Tory shook her head. Her hair under a small blue velvet hat looked an
especially bright red-gold.

“I am nearly fifteen. It would require too long a time to tell you what
it means to be a Girl Scout. Perhaps there were no Boy Scouts when
you were young enough to join their organization. If only you would
come to Westhaven I should like you to meet our Patrol of the Eagle’s
Wing Troop. Besides, it would do you good. Won’t you come? The country
is beautiful with its white covering of snow. My aunt, Miss Victoria
Fenton, is a wonderful housekeeper and you and Uncle Richard would be
sure to like each other. Besides, there is our Troop Captain, Sheila
Mason. I wish some day you might know her and paint her portrait. She
is lovely, but altogether unlike the portraits you have done.”

Tory glanced not very admiringly at the heads of men and women adorning
the artist’s gray walls. His models had assuredly not been chosen for
their beauty.

This time Mr. Winslow returned Tory’s laughter with emphasis.

She had divined that he was lonely and disillusioned and that, as in
most cases, the fault was as much his own as his world’s.

“Fifteen, and I have been talking to you as if you were a woman! I
suppose I had forgotten what your father wrote. In any case I might
have known by looking at you. I don’t often pay visits, but if your
aunt and uncle would like to have me at any time, perhaps I’ll come and
look over other drawings you have done and tell you how poor they are.
You are too young for anything but your three ‘R’s’ at present. But we
might have a few lessons for the sake of the good time we would have
and because your father has been kinder to me than he would be willing
to let other people know.”

At a signal from Tory, Dorothy and Lance had arisen. The three of them
were preparing to leave, aware of having remained longer than they
should. Outside, the winter twilight had almost completely closed in.

Lighting a pair of candles, Mr. Winslow turned to Dorothy and Lance,
fearing that he had not shown sufficient attention to his other
visitors in his interest in his old friend’s daughter.

He admired Dorothy McClain’s appearance, her tall, upright figure,
with the broad shoulders and slender hips, the clear, fresh skin and
straightforward blue eyes. An instant he considered that so a Greek
girl might have appeared in the days of the great Greek sculptors.
Then inwardly he denied his own thought. Dorothy McClain was a typical
American girl.

Turning toward Lance, he put out his hand for a second time.

“I did not recognize you at first. I believe we have seen each other
before, here in this very house. Do you live here?”

Lance shook his head.

“No, I come here now and then. I have a friend in one of the other
studios who allows me the use of his piano.”

“Do you mean the rich fellow named Moore, who won’t have anything to do
with the rest of us in this building?”

Lance stiffened.

“I know nothing of Mr. Moore’s private affairs.”

A little later, when they had said farewell and gone, Dorothy and Tory
both appreciated that they had learned the name of Lance’s friend
which he had declined to tell them without permission. It was of no
importance. Moore was not an uncommon name. As a matter of fact, it was
possibly bestowed upon Kara because it was so ordinary a name, when she
had been deserted as a baby in the evergreen cabin.



CHAPTER X

REACTION


Inevitably Tory suffered an intense reaction after the excitement of
the Christmas holidays and her visit to New York.

School appeared insufferably dull; life at home was rather worse than
better. After learning to bear with each other more amiably, again Tory
and her aunt, Miss Victoria Fenton, felt their personalities jarring at
nearly every point of contact.

Without hesitation Miss Victoria expressed her state of mind toward
her niece. In the past year she had agreed that Tory showed marked
improvement in character and personal habits. She had revealed a deeper
interest in her school work and the acquiring of friends in Westhaven.
She had lost her critical attitude toward what she considered the
conservative and old-fashioned views of the little New England village.
Her enthusiasm over becoming a Girl Scout and desire to maintain a good
standing had stimulated her to a greater degree of acquiescence in
Miss Fenton’s earnest effort to teach her the first principles of good
housekeeping.

Best of all, Tory had ceased to talk everlastingly of painting and her
life abroad with her father! She seemed really to intend to become an
American girl in the best sense of the word. This had been her father’s
wish in sending her to live in the United States. Since for once, and
the only time she could recall, her opinion had coincided with her
brother-in-law’s, Miss Victoria Fenton had spared neither advice nor
reproach.

Now when Tory had given her every right to feel encouraged, Miss
Fenton declared that the younger Victoria was returning to her former
waywardness and a measure of her original discontent.

The call upon the New York artist had been against Miss Victoria’s
better judgment. Now and then, Tory, without saying anything aloud,
felt herself agreeing with her aunt.

The daily routine of school did appear more trying than at any
time since her arrival in Westhaven after the first discouraging
and friendless weeks were gone. Later the Girl Scouts and her new
friendships had stimulated and helped her. She had learned to love
Memory Frean and her House in the Woods. She had become devoted to
Katherine Moore, who was then living at the orphan asylum known in
Westhaven as the Gray House on the Hill.

The weekly meetings of the Girl Scouts were a continuous joy. All
through the seven days she had gone at her tasks with the singing
thought that whatever was worth while would bring her nearer to the
honors she desired to attain in the Girl Scout organization.

Since the close of the holidays occasionally Tory appreciated that she
was asking herself if even the Girl Scouts filled the place in her life
they formerly had?

She would not reply even to herself, ashamed of her disloyalty and lack
of perseverance.

The visit in New York City in a way had altered her intimacy with
Dorothy McClain, and she had depended upon Dorothy, now that Kara must
be indefinitely in a hospital.

Of course there was no question that she and Kara cherished a deeper
affection for each other and that Dorothy and Louise Miller were
older and closer friends. This had not affected her own and Dorothy’s
relation.

She was more of a family friend than Louise Miller was ever apt to be.
Dr. McClain insisted that he cared for her next to his own daughter.
Don was always her admirer and champion, and did not particularly
understand or like Louise. She and Lance quarreled now and then, but
appreciated that this was partly because they had so many traits
in common they could never thoroughly approve of each other. They
enjoyed being together and arguing oftentimes more than a friendly
calm. Besides, Dorothy’s four other brothers, from the oldest to
the youngest, had in a measure adopted Tory as one of themselves.
They appreciated the fact that she was a stranger in Westhaven until
the year before and being brought up in the somewhat difficult home
atmosphere of an old maid aunt and bachelor uncle. She needed the
warmth and happy-go-lucky comradeship that they could offer.

But of late Tory believed Dorothy cared to be with her less
frequently. She was not disagreeable, Dorothy’s sweet nature and
straightforwardness never permitted her to be really unkind to any
human being. She was listless, however, and indifferent, and Tory
received the impression that she was not interested in anything she
might wish to discuss.

Oddly, the other Girl Scouts were less attractive than usual. One by
one Tory paid them visits during the afternoons following the Christmas
holidays, and found them unsatisfying.

She went out into the House in the Woods upon an especially
disagreeable January afternoon of thaw and cold winds. Memory Frean
listened to her protests, but was more critical than sympathetic.

Moreover, Tory had not to the same degree the refuge of her uncle’s
companionship. He was busier than in the early months after her arrival
to live in his home. He still spent the greater portion of his time in
the library, but he was then reading. Now he was engaged in writing a
book. Naturally, under the circumstances Tory felt herself less free
to interrupt him, although he was always cordial and interested in
whatever she might want to talk about.

Nevertheless, Tory herself became aware that the renewal of his former
friendship with Memory Frean had influenced Mr. Fenton. He was more
interested in outside things and people. He was even attending the
meetings in the Town Hall to discuss questions of village improvement
and being constantly called upon for his opinion and advice.

Since his rescue of Miss Frean he had fallen into the habit of paying
weekly visits to the little House in the Woods.

So Tory concluded she must bear her difficulties alone. She would not
talk to Sheila Mason. Above all other persons, she did not wish the
Troop Captain to dream that she was not feeling the same degree of
pleasure and interest in the Girl Scouts.

One consolation she did have. She wrote a letter to her new artist
acquaintance, Mr. Philip Winslow, and received a delightful one in
return, although even this letter was not wholly satisfactory.

In it he expressed the desire that she forget the half of their talk
together; apologized for not having appreciated her youth, and hoped
she would not consider the idea of becoming an artist for the next
three years at least. A good education, he insisted, was the best
foundation for any career she might pursue. He agreed to come to see
her some day in Westhaven, and with this Tory endeavored to be content.

Added to everything else, Kara explained that Mr. Jeremy Hammond had
answered the eccentric advertisement he had read in the newspaper.
Apparently he must have considered it of no importance, for he had gone
away from town on business without coming to see her. Lucy and Mrs.
Hammond had called, and Lucy was prettier than ever.

A postscript in Kara’s letter added that she was finding it more
difficult to be brave, now she no longer had the anticipation of Tory’s
and Dorothy’s visit to New York in prospect. The two girls had seen
her every day during their stay in town. She begged Tory to write her
everything that was said and done at the Scout meetings, since nothing
else afforded her the same pleasure and encouragement.

The weekly meeting that would occur the last week in January Tory
arranged to have at her own home. The weather would not allow them to
have the regulation drill, but if they wished they could go through
exercises in the old drawing-room and have their Round Table in the
dining-room later. Sheila Mason was suffering from a cold, so it was
possible that she might not be able to be present. In that case the
Patrol Leader would take charge.

During the early hours of Friday afternoon Tory was glad to make the
necessary preparations. She had undergone a disagreeable morning at
school. Her mathematics teacher, whom she never had been able to like,
reprimanded her publicly, protesting that she pay more attention to
what was going on around her and less to her own dreams.

At luncheon Miss Victoria added to her annoyance. She argued that if
Tory wished to entertain her Patrol at tea after their regular meeting,
she should have made the cake and sandwiches herself and not asked
Sarah, their maid. Sarah had proposed it and knew herself to be the
better cook. Tory considered her aunt’s criticism altogether uncalled
for, and said so. She had not intended to be impolite, but Mr. Fenton
had frowned and Tory had not enjoyed his reproving look.

She was moving the furniture about in the drawing-room immediately
after lunch with a degree of energy that was a relief to the spirit.
The heavy chairs had to be pushed back against the walls, the cherished
ornaments put in safe places. The Girl Scouts had agreed to practice
flag signaling from the different ends of the long room. They were
growing rusty in this feature of their Scout training.

Occasionally Tory stopped to get her breath or to change the
arrangement of some detail of the room. Instead of disliking the old
drawing-room as she had upon her arrival at her mother’s girlhood home,
Tory had become deeply attached to it. She admired the rich brown and
gold of the paper, the dark wood panelings, even the stately, stiff
portraits of her Fenton ancestors.

Several of the Girl Scouts had promised to come in early and help her
make ready the room for their Scout meeting. In her present state of
mind Tory did not regret their delay.

She had nearly finished when Dorothy McClain opened the door and
entered.

“Sorry not to have been able to get here sooner,” Dorothy began, “but I
am in such a bad humor. I know you cannot fail to be glad you have not
had to endure my society. I was waiting for Louise Miller and at the
last moment Louise called up to say she would be late. Her mother had
detained her for some reason.

“I wonder, Tory, if you have noticed a change in Louise since the
Christmas holidays? I have sometimes thought perhaps she believed you
and I were becoming too intimate and that she was left out. It would be
foolish of her; nothing could alter my feeling for Louise, no matter
how much I might care for you. But Louise is so absorbed in study and
growing more silent and self-contained. I know she does not approve
of me or love me as she used to, and it makes me very unhappy. She
insists I am wrong to continue worrying over Lance when he is doing
what he wishes. How can I help it when father still refuses to talk
about him except to ask if he is well? Lance writes me nothing more of
his affairs than we found out from him in town. He is at work and has a
friend named Moore who is helping him with his music.”

In one of the chairs stored away in a dark recess of the room, Dorothy
dropped down, resting her bright chestnut hair against the dark
leather. She looked so dispirited and so unlike the gallant, cheerful
Dorothy that Tory went to her.

“Dorothy, don’t tell me you are suffering from the blues! You must not;
you will depress all your family. You may not realize it, but they are
dependent upon you as the only girl in the family, and more so than
ever now that Lance is away. Lance was spoiled and sometimes selfish,
but you know he has a delightful sense of humor and imagination.

“As for Louise, she adores you. I wonder if she is not troubled about
something she does not think she ought to confide to you or any one of
the Girl Scouts? I confess I have noticed that Louise has been quieter
since the night of our Christmas Eve party.”

There was no chance for a further confidence, as Tory flew to answer a
timid knock on the door left half ajar.

Immediately she opened it wider, Louise Miller came into the room.

Her face was flushed and there were circles about her light gray eyes
with their curiously dark lashes. She was panting as if out of breath.

She almost ignored Tory.

“Dorothy, I found I could get here sooner than I thought, and I want
to apologize to you for having kept you waiting and then failing to
explain over the telephone. Mother and I were talking over something
and she suddenly announced she did not wish me to come to the Scout
meeting. I was to stay at home and help with some sewing for the
younger children. Finally I induced her to let me bring the work here.
Mother seems to feel I have no right to be a Girl Scout these days! I
am growing so much more stupid and self-centered and uninterested in
my household duties. If only I were more like you and Tory, Dorothy! I
never see you in this old room, Tory, without thinking what a picture
you make, especially in your Girl Scout costume. Forgive my not
speaking to you when I came in, I was thinking only of Dorothy.”

Tory laughed good naturedly.

“You nearly always are thinking of Dorothy, aren’t you, Ouida?--so I
forgive you. Yet Dorothy believes you do not care for her as you once
did, now when she specially needs you because of Lance.”

In one of her rare outbursts of affection Louise clasped her arms about
her friend.

“Dorothy, if you only knew how much I do care! Still I realize I have
behaved strangely of late, ever since the holidays. There is something
I must tell you, only I cannot just now.”

Through the open door the three girls beheld Teresa Peterson
approaching. Teresa’s cheeks were a deeper rose, her dusky hair less
neat than she ordinarily arranged it. Her lips and eyes were mutinous.

She dropped down on a stool.

“Well, I am glad we are to have a Scout meeting this afternoon.
Certainly I need something to reform my disposition! Ever since
Christmas things have been so dull and horrid.”

The outburst of laughter from her companions annoyed but did
not surprise Teresa. She was accustomed to their behaving in an
incomprehensible fashion on many occasions, and seldom troubled to
understand.

At present she had no opportunity.

Through the window she could observe Margaret Hale, Joan Peters and
the English Girl Guide, Martha Greaves, who was boarding with Joan’s
mother, coming toward the house. Even to Teresa’s not overactive
imagination it was evident that they had been disagreeing. They were
not speaking and each girl held herself erect with her chin slightly
elevated.

Afterwards Edith Linder appeared, a little aggrieved because Evan
Philips had promised to call for her and had forgotten the engagement.



CHAPTER XI

A ROUND TABLE DISCUSSION


The table in the Fenton dining-room had been arranged to form a perfect
circle with the addition of several table leaves.

Above the table were the flags of the Eagle’s Wing Troop and the
American flag.

Stacked in a corner of the room were the banners made of silver cloth.

The arm chair was empty, but the eight others were occupied by the Girl
Scouts in their regulation uniforms.

Joan Peters, the new Patrol Leader, in the absence of the Captain, was
presiding.

She was a tall, slender girl with light-brown hair and eyes of almost
the same shade. Her features were regular and delicately cut. She
possessed a poise of manner and a seriousness unusual in so young a
person. Joan was an only child and her mother a semi-invalid. Her
father, an inventor, had made no practical success with any of his
inventions, so that Joan was forced through circumstances to become the
practical member of her family.

She was leaning forward now over the round table, her eyes traveling
slowly from one face to the other, faces that either returned her gaze
or revealed downcast eyes.

In the old room there was a momentary silence in spite of the presence
of so many girls.

“I agree with Tory. It is absolutely necessary that we do _something_
right away,” Joan remarked slowly.

Louise Miller appeared impatient.

“Yes, but what? I know it has been good for all our souls to confess
that we have fallen into the slough of despond. Assuredly we are
upon the downward grade! I don’t know how to express it! Having made
the confession, what is to happen next? I have realized ever since
Christmas that I was not living up to our Girl Scout principles, as I
tried so hard to in the beginning. At first we had the excitement of
organizing and of struggling to earn our first merit badges, of ceasing
to be mere tenderfeet. Then followed our wonderful summer in Beechwood
Forest! Never have I been so happy anywhere on earth! I am sure my
whole life will be influenced by it!

“When I came back home in the early fall I remember making the noblest
resolutions. I was going to work harder at school, not in the subjects
I care for most, but in those that have never interested me. I was
going to be more helpful at home. My family would scarcely believe that
I acquired a badge for cooking over a camp fire last summer. I intended
to forget that I am more thrilled by birds and insects and trees
and stones than by making beds and dusting the parlor and sewing on
buttons. In truth, I really gave such a good imitation of doing what I
should, that my family, who were not enthusiastic about the Girl Scouts
at first, were beginning to be impressed.

“Just before Christmas time I discovered myself slipping into my old
indifference and awkwardness.

“Mother declares I have become impossible now. So what shall I do? We
might take up each individual case one at a time. I am sure I am the
most hopeless of our Troop, so begin with me. I never have felt I had
the same right the rest of you have to membership.”

There was no mistaking the fact that Louise was deeply in earnest.
She possessed little self-esteem, scarcely a sufficient amount. Her
own lack of beauty and charm of manner, her slow, oftentimes clumsy
movements, her inability to speak or think quickly, had always given
her the consciousness that she was less attractive than other girls.
And unfortunately for Louise, her own mother in a measure agreed with
this opinion. She herself was pretty, graceful and fond of society.

One person had struggled to influence Louise’s unfortunate estimate of
herself, her closest friend, Dorothy McClain.

Having finished her speech, Louise was leaning over, resting her
head upon her hand, appearing more discouraged than the other girls
considered necessary under the circumstances.

Louise’s features were large, her complexion pallid; she had only two
claims to beauty, her curious light-gray eyes and copper-red hair.
Ordinarily she wore unsuitable clothes, so that she looked better in
her Scout uniform than in other costumes.

“Nonsense, Ouida, we are not going at things in any such spirit!”
Dorothy remarked with the good sense and directness that distinguished
her.

Teresa Peterson looked relieved.

She and Louise were not congenial; it was impossible they should be
with such totally different temperaments.

Teresa was exceptionally pretty and pleasure loving. She could see
nothing to admire in Louise’s appearance or in her serious disposition.
Her philosophy of life, although Teresa would never have appreciated
that she possessed a philosophy, and would have disliked the name, was
never to trouble so long as it was possible to enjoy oneself. She had
pretty, soft manners and was gentle and affectionate, save when any one
opposed a strong desire on her part.

If the Girl Scouts realized that Teresa was unlike the rest of them,
they perhaps expected less of her. Several of the older girls,
particularly Joan Peters, had a special affection for Teresa and a wish
to shelter her from criticism or difficulty.

“I cannot see why it is our fault that we have been bored and cross
since Christmas,” she now remarked plaintively. “How can we expect
anything else after the lovely times we had then, the dances and sleigh
rides and skating party and the queer Christmas Eve entertainment
at Miss Frean’s when we were made Knights of something or other and
recited all sorts of funny poetry?”

Perhaps the laughter following Teresa’s speech was better for the group
of Girl Scouts than Louise’s introspection.

“I don’t wonder you say ‘Knights of something or other’,” Tory added.
“When I saw Kara in New York she was not in the least enthusiastic
over our Knighthood. I quoted Mrs. Browning’s poem: ‘The world’s male
chivalry has vanished quite, but women are knight-errants to the
last.’ Kara thought the idea too fanciful, as she does most of my
cherished suggestions. I told her we simply wished to have an original
entertainment and to hold our indoor Scout meetings this winter about a
Round Table. Nevertheless, I do remember that I was chosen to represent
Sir Galahad, the Knight who went in quest of the Holy Grail. Because
his life was purer than any other of the Knights he was allowed to
behold the Grail.”

The speaker lowered her voice and her eyelids drooped over her dark
eyes, as if she were ashamed to go on with what she was struggling to
say.

“I might as well confess I have wondered what the Quest of the Holy
Grail may mean in one’s ordinary, everyday life? I suppose it is not so
unlike what we are told to do in our Girl Scout work, do good to others
and follow the best that is in each of us.”

The girl’s glance traveled from the flags above the round table to the
pile of banners in the far corner of the old room.

“Yes, Tory, what is it that you wish to tell us? You have something to
propose. Somehow we always expect you to inspire us when we need a new
incentive,” Margaret Hale said encouragingly.

Still the other girl hesitated.

“I don’t believe I ought to suggest anything. I had not an idea
to propose when we started our Round Table discussion. I was in
such a bad humor before you girls arrived, I though everybody and
everything responsible except me. Then Dorothy and I fell to talking
and discovered we were in the same state of mind, afterwards Louise,
and then one by one each member of our Patrol. It was funny! Still, I
cannot help being sorry. Not one of our knightly banners is emblazoned
with any sign of a service we have rendered to any human being since
Christmas. Worse, I for one am failing always to do the daily good turn
I promised in our Girl Scout pledge.”

“Go on, Tory, we have agreed we are in the same state of mind and have
been making the same mistakes,” Edith Linder protested.

The other girl nodded.

“Very well. Please remember that whether you agree with me or not, for
once in my life I intend to be simple and practical in my suggestion.
And I want you to write and tell Kara.

“As we have been sitting here this afternoon the same idea has
occurred to each one of us. Our trouble is that we have been thinking
of ourselves. The only cure is to think of some one else. I have not
Kara any longer to care for and that makes a big difference with me.
But there must be some one else in Westhaven. So I propose that this
week each one of us finds some one who is ill and needing help of some
character. It does not matter whether the person is a member of our
own family or a stranger, rich or poor, young or old, we must manage
to make them more comfortable. Then at our next Scout meeting we can
report to one another. Don’t you think this may be worth while? I am
not pretending to be very original this afternoon.”

“It is not important _always_ to be original, Tory,” Margaret Hale
declared, in a voice and manner that always influenced her companions.

“I propose that we vote on your suggestion. It might be more inspiring
if we try to find people who are especially in need of help. If they
are willing, we could tell of what they have suffered. This might prove
as interesting and exciting as reading thrilling stories.”

In the vote that followed no voice dissented.

Only Teresa sighed and exclaimed:

“I believe I shall choose Miss Mason! She is our Scout Captain and
sent word to Tory that she was too ill to be with us this afternoon.
Of course she only has a bad cold, but she may grow worse. Besides, I
dearly love going to her house and sitting in her pretty room. I wish
I were grown and our house not so filled with ugly things. Living in
Miss Mason’s room, curled up on her blue couch with the yellow and blue
cushions, would give me a lovely disposition,” Teresa concluded.

Tory shook her head.

“Good gracious, Teresa dear, I am afraid if our Troop Captain continues
ill she will suffer from too much attention! I don’t think you really
have grasped our idea. But for goodness’ sake let us stop being so
serious! If we are through with our Scout meeting, suppose you come and
help me bring in tea, Teresa.”



CHAPTER XII

UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITIES


The days following Tory Drew’s suggestion to the Girl Scouts brought
forth an unusual chain of circumstances. Otherwise their good
resolutions might not have had the surprising developments.

A day or two later Tory received a letter which filled her with
surprise, pleasure and consternation. The letter was the second from
her new artist friend in New York City, but of a wholly different
character from the original one.

Mr. Winslow explained that he had not been well in some time. Recently
his physician had insisted that he spend the winter in the country.
He knew of few places outside New York City, but recalled Tory’s
description of Westhaven. Would it be possible to find him a little
house in or near Westhaven where he might spend the winter? He must be
a large part of the time out of doors. Tory would please understand
that he could afford to pay but little and would ask only the simplest
living arrangements.

The letter Tory showed first to her uncle and then to Memory Frean.

Neither had any suggestion to make that Tory believed would to
acceptable to the gifted but disappointed artist, who was her father’s
friend, and who, perhaps, some day would be her teacher as well as
friend.

Mr. Fenton could only propose vaguely that the artist might spend the
winter with them, if his sister, Miss Victoria, were willing.

Tory appreciated that her aunt might be glad to entertain an unknown
guest for a week or ten days. She could hardly be expected to desire
one for an indefinite stay.

Moreover, Mr. Winslow would never consider the proposal. He had no wish
to be a burden.

Memory Frean, for the first time in their acquaintance, had no
suggestion to offer.

Fortunately, Dorothy McClain was almost equally as interested as Tory
in their recent acquaintance. In accordance with her advice, they
concluded to consult with their Troop Captain, Sheila Mason.

Miss Mason was not well enough to be outdoors, but, contrary to
Teresa’s Good Samaritan intentions, was a great deal better, and able
to see visitors in her own room.

The two girls found her in a lovely morning dress of gold and blue
seated in a large chair before a fire.

As Teresa had insisted upon adopting the Scout Captain as _her_
invalid, notwithstanding her recovery, at the moment of Tory’s and
Dorothy’s arrival they discovered Teresa curled up on the blue sofa
with the yellow cushions, according to her expressed desire.

Sheila Mason was an only daughter. Her family was considered a wealthy
one, according to the standards of Westhaven. She was only a few years
older than her own Troop of Girl Scouts, being in the early twenties.

This afternoon Tory dropped down on a stool at her feet, while Dorothy
seated herself upon the divan beside Teresa.

“There seems to be no little house for rent in Westhaven that is
inexpensive,” Dorothy remarked, when Tory had concluded her story.
“We have made any number of inquiries. And I feel sure Mr. Winslow is
poorer than he would be willing to confess. He says he must sublet his
studio to be able to leave New York at all. At the same time I consider
it would be best for him and a wonderful thing for Westhaven to have
him spend the winter here. He is sure to make friends. Tory and I
are convinced he is very gifted and that it is only because of some
disappointment, a love affair perhaps, that he so far has failed to
meet the success he deserves.”

Sheila Mason laughed. How unlike Dorothy to be so romantic! She would
have expected such a speech from Tory.

Then Sheila set herself seriously to considering their problem,
wrinkling her brows and biting her lips. The three girls continued to
gaze at her admiringly.

Her fair, pale-gold hair was piled loosely on top of her small head.
Her eyes were dark blue with thin level brows. Except for the gravity
of her expression she might have been almost too pretty.

Suddenly she made a movement.

“Girls, I have thought of something! Suppose we ask this Mr. Winslow if
he would like to occupy our evergreen cottage in the woods this winter.
I am sure the little place can be made comfortable for him, and from
what you tell me Mr. Winslow is not a conventional person. He can rest
out there and paint our beechwoods in the winter time whenever he likes
or is well enough. Of course we must ask the permission of our other
Girl Scouts.

“After Mr. Hammond had the floor of our cabin removed to search for
a clew to Katherine Moore’s history, he had a better floor relaid to
take the place of the old one, and the holes in the walls stopped with
plaster.

“I for one shall envy this artist person if he occupies our cabin
during the winter. I too have missed our good times out there and since
Christmas have worried over our failure to live up to our Scout ideals.”

Flushing, the young Scout Captain clasped her hands over her knees
and began slowly rocking back and forth in an unconscious and girlish
fashion.

“I had about reached the conclusion, girls, that our mistake lately
has been that we have thought too much of our own happiness and
self-development. It is part of the Scout ideal, but certainly not
the whole. Our slogan is sufficient proof, the daily good turn is for
others.”

The Scout Captain turned to Tory.

“Teresa has just told me of your suggestion; each one of us is to find
an ill person and care for him or her during the winter. If your artist
comes to the evergreen house, Tory, you may look after him. Perhaps we
may be envious of you. As soon as I am well I too shall seek out some
one to aid. This is a hard winter for many people. The Girl Scouts
ought to make themselves an influence for good in Westhaven as never
before.”

A little later, on their way home, Tory and Dorothy McClain could think
and talk of nothing but the possibility of their artist’s spending the
winter months in their evergreen house in the beechwoods.

They had adopted Mr. Winslow to the extent of speaking of him as “their
artist” to each other.

Small doubt in either girl’s mind that the other Scouts in their Troop
would agree to the Troop Captain’s suggestion!

If Mr. Winslow accepted their invitation, Dorothy and Tory decided to
do everything in their power to make his stay in Westhaven a success.
They would omit no detail. He should not be bored by their attentions,
but never allowed to feel neglected.

“Suppose he should meet some one in Westhaven who would console him for
what he must have suffered in the past?” Dorothy suggested.

In amazement Tory stared at her and smiled.

She was as surprised as their Troop Captain by Dorothy’s unexpected
romantic attitude. Of all her friends Dorothy was less given to
vicarious romanticism. Most of the girls indulged in dreams for
themselves and their friends. Dorothy was as matter-of-fact as many
boys. Her own family and friends and the daily routine of life so far
satisfied her.

But Mr. Winslow had touched her imagination as well as Tory’s. The
truth was that Lance’s absence from home left a vacant place in
Dorothy’s life which she had not known he had so completely filled.

She and Donald confessed to each other that always they had had Lance
upon their minds without appreciating the fact. He was so often in
trouble with some one, or not well, or proposing some impossible
suggestion out of which he had to be argued or bullied.

Realizing Dorothy’s need, Tory decided to be generous. She would have
preferred Mr. Winslow to be principally known as her friend upon his
arrival. In reality, she had the chief claim upon him. Still, after all
it might be pleasanter if she and Dorothy shared the pleasure.

Neither girl apparently doubted the artist’s acceptance of their
suggestion. They were right in their surmise. Before another week he
might be expected. The evergreen cottage appeared to be the one place
in the world most suited to his needs.

The arrangements to make it habitable for the winter Dorothy and Tory
gladly undertook. Mr. Winslow insisted upon paying a small rental. Miss
Virginia Fenton agreed to allow Tory to use any old furniture she might
find stored away in the attic of their house.

An entire afternoon she and Dorothy spent in fascinated search. They
discovered a battered but beautiful mahogany table, two chairs slightly
uncertain in their legs, but otherwise whole. However, the cabin was
well supplied with tables and chairs. The treasure that pleased them
most was a worn pair of dark blue and gold damask curtains. Drawn
across the windows they would make the cabin room safe from the cold
and full of beautiful color. They were, of course, too long and too
large for the cabin windows, so that odd pieces were cut off for table
covers and scarfs.

A piece of oriental embroidery, brought home by one of her early
seafaring Fenton ancestors, Tory hung on the cabin wall to break the
monotony of the exterior. She hoped Mr. Winslow would bring a certain
number of pictures with him, not only to beautify the cabin but to give
the people in Westhaven a knowledge of his ability.

If not, Dorothy suggested he would soon have new pictures of the woods
and scenes about Westhaven.

Indeed, the two girls became so interested in their work and in their
anticipations they saw nothing of the other Girl Scouts in their Patrol
for the entire week.

What they were doing to carry out Tory’s suggestion at the last Scout
meeting they neither knew nor for the time felt any special interest.
The next Scout meeting was to be delayed until the Troop Captain was
well enough to be present.

Suddenly Tory Drew found herself having to face the entire
responsibility of Mr. Winslow’s arrival and installation at the
evergreen cottage alone.

It was nearly bedtime and she was beginning to make ready to undress
when she heard Donald McClain’s familiar whistle beneath her window.

Tory fled down to the front door, calling to Mr. Fenton, who was in his
library, to explain why she had reappeared after saying good-night.

Don would only come in for a few moments. He brought a message from
Dorothy saying that her father had received a telegram asking him to
come to New York City at once.

The telegram was signed Owen Moore. Lance at last had agreed they
might learn the name of the man who had befriended them. He had told
them nothing of his history, insisting that he himself was in complete
ignorance. Mr. Moore did not seem to care to talk of his own past.

Naturally, Dr. McClain believed that Lance had been taken seriously
ill. He did not wish to face the situation alone and was taking Dorothy
with him.

Tory received permission to spend a quarter of an hour with Dorothy and
the doctor in order to say good-by and to send a dozen messages through
them to Kara.

Her own anxiety over the mysterious summons and its possible reference
to Lance, she did her best to conceal.



CHAPTER XIII

OTHER EXPERIENCES


During the past week Tory and Dorothy had been making happy
preparations for the arrival of Mr. Winslow at the evergreen cabin.
They had secured the consent of the other girls without difficulty. In
the meantime several of the Girl Scouts had been puzzled by the effort
to keep the Scout pledge made to one another at their final meeting.

Of necessity, in the village there must be a number of persons who
were ill and would like to be cared for, provided the attentions were
tactfully offered. How to discover the persons specially in need of
sympathy and aid was not so simple an undertaking. Most ill persons
had their own families and friends. Outside attention was scarcely
necessary.

One afternoon, under the impression that she had not fulfilled her own
duty in the matter, Margaret Hale decided that she would make a call
upon Edith Linder and ask her advice. Edith lived in a poorer quarter
of Westhaven among the foreign element, many of whom worked in the
factories. To her own embarrassment, Margaret appreciated that she
had never been to call upon Edith before. In the days when Edith had
spent the winter at Memory Frean’s cottage she had gone frequently to
inquire for her. Indeed, she had been one of her advocates when Tory
Drew insisted that Edith was not the type of girl to make a successful
eighth member of their Patrol. Later Tory had completely changed her
viewpoint. Nevertheless, Margaret realized that since her return to
live with her own family, she had relied upon seeing Edith at their
regular Scout meetings and had made no effort to see her at her own
home.

This had not been deliberate. Margaret was too well-bred herself to
consider the social inferiority of a girl whom she liked as a personal
friend, and was a member of her Girl Scout Patrol. The truth was that
she had not thought of their possessing any special interests in common
outside their Scout work until this afternoon. Now it occurred to her
that Edith might put her in touch with persons who really were more in
need of help than her own acquaintances.

She would stop and ask Louise Miller to accompany her. Rarely did she
call upon Louise! They had a special regard for each other, but with
her school work, her Scout work, music lessons, reading and the desire
to be with her own family whenever it was possible, Margaret could
reasonably plead the excuse of not having time for visiting. Moreover,
Louise was nearly always with Dorothy McClain when she had the leisure.
At present Dorothy and Tory Drew seemed more often in one another’s
society, so it occurred to Margaret that Louise might not only be more
free, but glad to be reminded of the affection and admiration she felt
for her.

It was true that Margaret Hale possessed a deep regard and appreciation
of Louise, in spite of the other girl’s clumsiness and lack of social
gifts in contrast to her own graceful manner and appearance.

Margaret knew that their circumstances had been altogether different.
Her own father was wealthy and prominent and devoted to his family, her
mother cultivated and charming. They both had done everything in their
power to make their home atmosphere beautiful and serene. Margaret
never remembered anything but sympathy and affection and understanding
surrounding herself and her two younger sisters. They had everything
they could possibly wish, money, position; put into concrete terms,
they owned a lovely home, not one but two motor cars, the services of
three or four maids, a gardener and a chauffeur.

Yet no one could be less spoiled than Margaret or more unselfish; a
part of this was her own nature, another part her mother’s thoughtful
training.

Personally Margaret felt humble in the depth of her sincere and
beautiful nature. Her possessions she realized were not herself nor
due to her own accomplishments. Individually she believed herself less
clever and less gifted than most of the girls in her own Patrol.

Louise Miller possessed none of her material and spiritual advantages.
She was poor and not congenial with her own family, yet Margaret
believed had a stronger nature and rarer talents than she expected to
possess.

This afternoon the small space in front of Louise’s home looked
especially barren and ugly. Two small boys were fighting. They stopped
at Margaret’s approach, more interested in her than in battle.

After ringing the front door bell Margaret thought she heard a
querulous voice in the hall, fretfully scolding some one. She could
not be sure who it was until Mrs. Miller herself opened the front door,
appearing tired and dispirited.

At the sight of the visitor her face brightened. She asked her in the
parlor without mentioning her arrival to Louise.

Margaret was annoyed. She had not come to call upon Mrs. Miller and was
not interested in what she was saying, although she thought her pretty
in a faded fashion.

When Louise’s strong, almost ugly face appeared at the open door,
Margaret thought her handsomer than her mother, so important was her
undoubted strength of character.

As a matter of principle Mrs. Miller always objected to Louise’s going
away from home in search of amusement. This afternoon on Margaret’s
account she did not protest seriously. She preferred Margaret to
Dorothy McClain as Louise’s friend, for one reason because Louise
was not so absorbed in Margaret. Another, because Mr. Hale possessed
greater wealth than Dr. McClain.

Slowly Margaret and Louise walked on toward an entirely different
quarter of the village. Louise confessed that she had been so busy at
home during the past week that she had no time for outside work. The
younger children had been suffering from colds and been difficult. She
had been trying to keep them amused to spare her mother as much as
possible.

Apparently Louise did not consider that she had thus accomplished her
Scout duty. Margaret insisted upon it, and tried to induce Louise to
appreciate the fact.

By and by the girls talked no more of themselves or of their Scouting
in their interest in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Most of the cottages in the factory district were new and clean. Near
the large factory buildings the dilapidated tenement houses looked gray
and battered.

The girls knew Edith’s street and house number and were glad to
discover that her home was one of the new cottages.

The yard was larger and more attractive than Louise’s.

In the small space a garden half of vegetables, half flowers,
flourished in the summer time; now with the winter the yard revealed
only a few hardy shrubs and several small fruit trees with bare, thin
branches.

Edith herself was responsible for the garden. Until her family moved
into Westhaven she had lived upon a small farm where her father had
not been successful. Edith still believed she preferred the country to
the village, except that the village gave her the chance to be a member
of the Eagle’s Wing Troop of Girl Scouts.

Instead of going indoors the girls continued their walk. They were
frank in explaining to Edith that they wished to investigate the
neighborhood and to ask the benefit of her opinion.

Westhaven was only a small village, yet Margaret and Louise were
astonished at their ignorance of the factory neighborhood.

In the winter afternoon the smoke of the huge chimneys ascended in
long, dark columns; there was little wind blowing, but a sultriness
that might mean a storm later on.

Edith had been prompt in her reply to the other girls’ question.

Not far off was a school a dozen yards from one of the largest
factories in the village. Among the children there were always some who
needed aid.

Now that the girls of her Patrol had learned to understand Edith Linder
they had made this discovery: What had appeared to be sullenness and
lack of appreciation of friendliness was shyness. She had never known
any girls intimately until her arrival in Westhaven. The little farm
where she had spent her childhood had been some distance from any other
and she some years older than her own brothers and sisters. During
the summer in Beechwood Forest the other Girl Scouts had learned that
Edith’s gifts were practical. She was strong and capable, although
lacking certain refinements she never had the chance to acquire until
her contact with her Patrol of Girl Scouts. She learned from them, and
equally they would be able to learn from her.

Following Edith’s suggestion, Margaret Hale stopped and called Joan
Peters and Martha Greaves, the English Girl Guide, on the telephone.

They would be interested in their expedition. Tory and Dorothy she knew
to be busy elsewhere. The fact of Dorothy’s departure to New York she
had not heard.

“She and Martha were just starting out for a walk,” Joan reported, “and
would be with them in a few moments.”

The little group walked on in a more leisurely fashion, waiting for
their companions, whom they were to meet on an appointed corner.

It was now about three o’clock in the afternoon of a day that was to be
long remembered in Westhaven.

The streets were comparatively empty. At this hour the employees in the
factories were particularly absorbed by their work, with lunch over and
the afternoon still in its early hours.

The three Girl Scouts were able to walk abreast without troubling any
one, moving aside if it became necessary.

Near a shirt factory not far from the corner where the friends had
agreed to meet, Edith Linder paused.

“In there my mother and father are at work,” she explained. “I may have
to work there some day myself, but I shall never like it. I only care
for a farm and outdoor occupations.”

“Well, then, marry a farmer, Edith,” Margaret Hale said laughingly.

“Perhaps I will if I have a chance,” Edith answered.

Louise looked more serious.

“Suppose we live together, Edith! You and I who love the outdoors in
such different fashion. Yours is certainly the sensible one. I have
such a grubby attitude, wanting only to poke around and study the
trees and soil, never to make things grow.

“Why is the smoke coming out of that side wall of the factory? Do you
suppose trash is being burned over there?”

Idly Louise spoke, with no special interest in her voice and a little
surprised by her own discovery. Ordinarily she was not as observant as
she should be.

The other girl’s hand closed on her arm until the tightness of her hold
was uncomfortable.

“What is it, Edith?” Margaret Hale asked anxiously. She had not
listened to the conversation for the last few seconds.

There was no immediate reply, but the tension in Edith Linder’s face
and figure was plain to her companions.

“It is nothing, I suppose, I was a little afraid of a fire,” Edith
returned. “I think one often is in a factory neighborhood. I suppose I
am more fearful because I have lived in the country.”

Undoubtedly the smoke was increasing, yet neither Louise nor Margaret
was alarmed. Gusts of smoke frequently appear in unexpected places
to an outsider’s eyes and usually can be traced to a natural source.
Inside the factory the occupants must be aware of what was taking
place. The wind was now blowing in occasional gusts and probably
forcing the smoke in varying directions.

The two girls started to move on past the factory building.

Edith held them back.

“Not for a moment, please, not until I can be sure. Will you wait here?
I think I had best go to the front door and inquire what is the matter.
You see, I know the manager and it will be all right.”

This time Edith was walking on alone, when Louise called out sharply:

“Edith, there _is_ a fire! Don’t go nearer.”

That instant a flame had leaped upward, showing scarlet against the
window.

Margaret and Louise heard a curious commingling of sounds they
were never to forget. Edith had broken away and was running with
outstretched arms and lowered head toward the narrow door opening into
the factory office.

Came the noise of an explosion, then muffled cries from within the
building, growing in volume, and echoed by the inhabitants of the
nearby cottages and tenements.

A bell pealed somewhere. Several men rushed by on the way to give the
alarm.

Too stunned to be of service for the moment, Margaret and Louise
crowded against a friendly fence.

Why were the men and women, the girls and boys inside the burning
building not already streaming out into the streets?

Out of the downstairs windows a few people were jumping and pushing
one another. From the front door a dozen women and men ran and then a
little distance off stood still, gazing upward and calling to friends
above the uproar.

Edith Linder did not reappear.

A half dozen policemen appeared. Louise and Margaret found themselves
thrust backward and not allowed beyond a certain line.

“What is the trouble? Why don’t they clear out?” the girls overheard
one man ask the other.

“Something pretty bad is the trouble! The fire has started below and
the stairs are choked with smoke. Too many people in there for the size
of the building. I have been afraid of something like this.”

Down the street came the welcome noise of the first fire engine.

“Is there anything we can do to be useful, officer?” Margaret Hale
asked.

She had regained her self-command and walked as close as possible to
the dividing line, followed by Louise Miller.

The girls were wearing their Scout uniforms and now appeared calm and
efficient.

“Yes, glad to have your help! See you are Scouts! In a few moments
the children, whose mothers and fathers are locked in there, will be
crowding the streets. Help to keep them back out of the danger line.”

Not a moment too soon had the order been given.

At this instant Margaret reached to clutch a little girl, pushing her
way past, wild with terror.

She fought and screamed while Margaret held her fast.

“Be quiet, your mother will be here in a few moments. If you don’t stay
with me, she will never know where to find you,” she found herself
whispering reassuringly. And something in her voice and manner made the
child obey.

The following moment she opened the gate of the fence against which she
and Louise had sheltered themselves and drew the little girl inside.

It chanced that in this particular place an old building, erected many
years ago and now used for storage, stood back from the sidewalk with a
yard protected by a picket fence.

The yard could be made a place of refuge for the children who would try
to press inside the fire lines. Margaret knew she must find some one to
assist her. She turned to look for Louise Miller and discovered that
Louise had a small boy by the shoulders and was pushing him before her
into the same retreat.

No great length of time could have passed when Margaret Hale and Louise
were being assisted by a dozen members of the Eagle’s Wing Troop.
Afterwards the two girls remembered they had felt no surprise. The
news of the burning of the factory had spread through the village and
naturally the girls had come to be of service.

This was their first important test. Never before had they been able to
assume any public responsibility in the village! Were they making good
in the same fashion that the Boy Scouts had upon many occasions?

The small yard became more and more crowded with frightened, crying
children. Occasionally a policeman thrust a lost child into the midst
of the others and went on his way.

The factory was not yet emptied of its workers. Numbers of excited men
and women went past; a few tried to linger and push their way in among
the children in search of their own, but were forced on.

By this time a high wind was blowing and the flames from the burning
frame building crackled and roared, throwing forth long pennants of
flame, as if a flag whipped in the wind were then drawn back.

Margaret Hale knew she must have overheard the explanation, that a door
leading to the flight of stairs on the top floor had been locked. A
hundred men and women were trapped; with the lower-floors in flames,
they were unable to escape.

The firemen were ascending ladders and drawing them forth one by one.

With so much to absorb energy and attention, Margaret and Louise Miller
never lost the memory of Edith Linder’s sudden disappearance inside the
factory door. Perhaps she had been able to give the alarm or assist in
the rescue. She was extraordinarily brave. The other Girl Scouts had
guessed this trait of character on several unimportant occasions during
their summer together in Beechwood Forest.

She could not have observed the little group of her companions when she
came past, as she must have left the building some time before. One of
the side walls had fallen in and the fire was diminishing.

The police were urging people to return to their homes. The worst was
now over, but a space must be kept clear.

Would the Girl Scouts help the children to find their parents?

The officer to whom Margaret had first offered her own and Louise’s aid
stopped to lift his hat to her.

“It is not to you only, Miss, I am taking off my hat. It is to the
whole of you Girl Scouts. Sure and you’ve done yourselves proud, and
the village!” he remarked, with a delightful Irish brogue, appearing
as self-possessed and good-natured as if he had not passed through the
ordeal of the last hour.

It was after dusk when Louise and Margaret made their way again to
Edith Linder’s. They were too weary to speak to each other and too
overstrained, yet could not go to their homes for the night without
news of Edith.

She came out to meet them, and Margaret Hale, usually so
self-contained, put her arms about her, dropping her head on her
shoulder.

“Edith, I have not had time to confess it even to myself, but I have
been so frightened about you! Why were you so reckless? Surely you
could do nothing to help!”

Edith made no reply to this question. Later the Girl Scouts were to
learn what she had accomplished.



CHAPTER XIV

AN INTRODUCTION


A few days later Tory Drew and her Troop Captain were driving out
toward the evergreen cabin. It was a mild winter afternoon, with light
patches of snow where the sun had not shone and the ice melting between
the ruts in the road.

“It is good of you, Miss Mason, to drive with me to see Mr. Winslow.
Uncle Richard and I came out yesterday to find if he were comfortable,
and Memory Frean has offered to be of any service. Just the same, he
might have been lonely if I had not kept my word and brought you!

“Mr. Winslow asked me yesterday to whom he was indebted for the
suggestion of the cabin and I told him _you_. I told him a great deal
about you.”

Sheila Mason laughed.

She was looking very lovely in a dark-blue velvet coat suit with a
kolinsky collar and cuffs, and a velvet hat of the same shade against
the fairness of her pale-gold hair.

“Your friend will think I am a very informal person, coming to call
upon him in this fashion before he has called upon me, or before I have
even been introduced. Still, it was hard for you to have Dorothy desert
you just as you were both to take charge of your gifted invalid! I am
afraid he may find that he is lonely and dissatisfied so far from the
village and I want him to feel that he may make friends in Westhaven
whenever he desires, although we do not wish to be troublesome.”

“I wonder if you know how pretty you are looking, Sheila? Most people
do know when they are looking especially well!”

In thinking of Sheila Mason as their Girl Scout Captain, Tory always
intended addressing her by her title, but when they were alone she
often employed her first name.

With half-closed eyes she now gazed at her friend critically.

“If I were a full-fledged artist I would ask you to let me paint a
portrait of you. As I am not, I would never be able to do you justice.
I am sure Mr. Winslow would make a wonderful picture! Why don’t you
allow him the chance? Then he would not be lonely this winter and you
would learn to know each other and I am sure----”

Tory stopped and colored.

Sheila Mason was returning her glance, laughing and frowning.

“No romancing, please, Tory, now or ever! If you start I shall refuse
to get out at the evergreen cabin, and have the chauffeur motor me back
home. You girls are pretty good usually, but I observed a tendency
on Dorothy’s part a week or ten days ago to make me figure in a
romance and this afternoon _you_ are drawing perilously near. Please
understand, dear, that romance is over for me forever, and let us never
speak of it. I am ever so much happier with you Girl Scouts than I
dreamed I could be.”

The younger girl bit her lips.

“I’ll try to remember,” she returned apologetically, “but really,
Sheila, don’t you think you are young to talk as if love and romance
have ended for you? Think of Uncle Richard and Memory Frean! They never
_say_ anything and yet now and then I cannot help guessing they must be
a little sorry. I have been considering the men I have met in Westhaven
and really no one of them is half as nice as you are; but Mr. Winslow
is different. I beg your pardon. I won’t speak of this again. Don’t
be angry; I’ll change the subject and never refer to it. There are
several other things I really want dreadfully to talk to you about.

“Don’t you think it odd that I have never heard a word from Dorothy
or Kara since Dr. McClain and Dorothy reached New York? I can’t
imagine whether it is because Lance is so ill, or because something
has developed about Kara. Still, I don’t see how a letter from Lance’s
friend, Mr. Moore, can have any connection with Kara. I don’t really
think so. Only, I nearly always am thinking of her.”

A silence fell between the girl and her companion and the sensation
of annoyance passed from Sheila Mason. Girls of Tory’s age and the
other Girl Scouts were inclined to be sentimental, not in regard to
themselves but their older friends. The sentiment Tory had just uttered
was not hers alone. Now and then Sheila’s own mother protested that she
must not sacrifice her entire life to a memory. She was altogether too
young and pretty.

Either with her mother or Tory, Sheila did not agree. The other girl’s
devotion to Katherine Moore always made an appeal to her.

At this moment she slipped her hand inside her companion’s.

“I would not believe there is anything serious the matter with Lance
or Kara until you hear. You are sure to have a letter from Dorothy
by to-morrow. She has only been away a short time and is probably so
distracted by New York. Remember your Knighthood, Tory, and be brave as
possible.”

The girl smiled ruefully, but afterwards her expression brightened.

“We have one Knight of our Girl Scout Round Table whose banner can
be inscribed with the story of a noble deed. Isn’t it wonderful to
think of Edith Linder’s bravery? Memory Frean says that the people
of Westhaven wish to offer her a reward of some kind to show their
appreciation of what she accomplished as a Girl Scout. We have no right
to share in the honor, I least of all, who objected to Edith’s joining
our Patrol when her name was first proposed! Don’t you think she has
earned the Golden Eaglet?”

The Troop Captain nodded.

“I have been thinking the same thing. No one would dispute the justice
of Edith’s claim to the highest honor a Girl Scout can attain. How
often the people who do the bravest acts are those we least expect it
of!”

“Yes, and Edith is unconscious as if she had done nothing at all. She
does not wish to be praised or to discuss the question. Margaret and
Louise declare that Edith did not refer to anything unusual when they
went to see if she were safe. She looked used up, but then so did every
one else who had been helping.”

“Can you tell me a clear story of what Edith did?” the Troop Captain
inquired. “I wish to write an account to the Scout magazine and to make
no mistake.”

Tory Drew closed her eyes. Her mental impression was always clearer
with nothing to distract her from the outside.

“I think I can tell you briefly.

“When Edith entered the factory building there was no one in the
office. The alarm of fire had just been shouted through the building
and the superintendent had rushed out. Edith ran into one of the rooms
on the ground floor where the men and women were already making their
escape. She overheard some one say there was no danger; everybody would
be able to get out. Her mother and father she believed at work on the
top floor, and Edith started up the stairs. As she ran some one shouted
to her to come down, as the stairways were filling with smoke. She kept
on, although nearly knocked down any number of times by frightened
people rushing past. Once Edith believed she was overcome by the smoke
and dropped on the floor, and some one trampled over her. This seemed
to bring her to her senses, for she got up and continued struggling up
a flight of steps, black and thick with acrid fumes. She could hear
people shouting and beating on a door at the top of the stairs.

“Edith insists that she had no idea of this door being locked or what
she was going to accomplish, and for this reason deserves no special
praise or reward. She was only fighting her way to her mother and
father.

“She says she recalls puzzling over the fact that no one was running
down these stairs as she dragged herself up. Then she put out her hand
and touched a heavy steel door. She could see nothing and was scarcely
conscious of what she was doing. The door would not move, so she threw
herself against it blindly, searching for the key, found and turned it
in the lock. The door seemed to fall open from the weight of the men
and women who had been trying to rush it. Her mother happened to be
on a lower floor. Edith’s own father carried her downstairs when the
others were so crazed with fear they might have trampled her.”

Tory put her gloved hands against her hot cheeks and leaned over toward
the open window of the car for a breath of the winter air.

“Please do not let us talk of the fire again, Sheila, not for some
time anyhow, certainly not to Mr. Winslow. I dread the thought of it;
I think of nothing else, waking or sleeping. It may seem absurd, but
Edith Linder was much calmer than I when we talked of it.”

The Troop Captain put her arm about the younger girl.

“No, Tory dear, we won’t speak of it again; I am sorry I troubled you.
You are more sensitive and impressionable than the other girls and I
ought to have remembered!”

Tory’s lips were trembling.

“That is a kind way of expressing things, Sheila, when the truth is I
am a bigger goose. A good many people were injured. The Girl Scouts
will have no difficulty now in finding people who need their care. I
am giving nearly every cent of my allowance to the fund that is being
raised.”

Fortunately the automobile had reached the end of the country road. To
arrive at the evergreen cabin one must now follow a footpath.

With pleasure and relief the Troop Captain and Tory started along the
familiar trail, leading to the heart of their former summer encampment
in Beechwood Forest.

This afternoon the little house showed more plainly. Many of the leaves
were frosted and fallen, revealing the heavy tangle of the vines.

“Do you wish _we_ were living here, instead of Mr. Winslow?” Tory
demanded.

“No, I am afraid it would be too lonely unless one were a genius or a
lover of nature like Memory Frean. I believe she is lonely herself now
and then, although she will never confess it. She and Mr. Winslow are
close neighbors. Why can’t you develop a romance between them?”

Emphatically Tory shook her head.

“Certainly not. Memory is years older! Besides, her romance belongs
in our family! Goodness, there is Mr. Winslow at the door! He is
dreadfully shy and if he should dream I have been romancing about him I
am afraid would go back at once to New York.”

A tall, slightly stooped man with the fine brown eyes and sweep of
darker brown hair walked down the path to meet them. He was not
like Sheila’s mental impression of him. He was younger and had more
courtesy, more sense of humor, than she had imagined.

He seemed appreciative of her call without taking it too seriously.

He had been expecting Tory and one of her friends, so had made
arrangements for tea.

A fair amount of inexpensive china had been left in an old cabinet at
the cabin when the Girl Scouts returned to their homes.

The little stove, set up inside the fireplace, was warmer than an open
fire, if not so picturesque.

Mr. Winslow had brought but few of his personal possessions. He had
several favorite pictures hung against the rich brown wood of the cabin
walls.

A sketch book lay open on a table.

Sheila Mason saw it at once and asked to be allowed to look at the
sketches.

In spite of his beautiful manners she had discovered that her new
acquaintance was shyer than she had imagined. Dorothy and Tory were
not so far from the truth, for he did give one the impression that he
suffered from a disappointment that had had a deep influence upon his
nature. Whether his disappointment was due to his lack of success or
to some other reason, Sheila had no way of estimating. When they knew
each other better he might confide in her. She felt they might become
friends, as he would recognize that she too had been more unhappy than
most people.

These were the Troop Captain’s unspoken impressions as she and Mr.
Winslow sat by the window of the cabin studying his book of sketches.
Already he had made a drawing of the cabin with the beechwood forest as
a background which she greatly admired and coveted.

As they talked Tory was making the final preparations for tea.

She insisted the privilege be granted her, as she knew the resources
of the cabin better than its present host. Moreover, her aunt, Miss
Victoria Fenton, had sent the newcomer a number of gifts for his
present and future comfort.

Tory had carried them packed in a basket.

She placed the cake and the home-made jam on the table, glancing
frequently at her two companions.

They seemed to be getting on very well, considering their brief
acquaintance.

It occurred to Tory that she was being ignored more than she
anticipated, considering the fact that she had first met Mr. Winslow
and that his presence in the evergreen cabin was due to their
friendship.

The Troop Captain had taken off her velvet coat and hat, as the room
was warm. The two heads were bent close over the sketch book.

Studying them, Tory smiled.

Not half an hour before she had been reproached for being romantic and
made to promise never to offend again. Certainly she had not dreamed
that Miss Mason and Mr. Winslow would develop a liking for each other
so promptly.

When tea was ready, purposely Tory called Mr. Winslow to her
assistance. He should not be monopolized.

She hoped that he would become sufficiently interested in her to allow
her to study painting with him during the approaching summer.

They had a delightful tea. Returning home, Tory had forgotten the
circumstances that had been troubling her: Dr. McClain and Dorothy’s
unexpected summons to New York City and the fact that she had not
received her usual letter from Katherine Moore.

In the front hall Mr. Richard Fenton was awaiting her arrival.

“We are leaving on an early train in the morning for New York, if you
can manage to be ready, Tory. Your Aunt Victoria will help you pack
your bag. I don’t think there is any cause to be alarmed. I have just
received a telegram from Dr. McClain asking me to join him as soon as
possible and to bring you. Please don’t worry or I shall be sorry to
have had to mention the telegram to you to-night. If you wish to be of
service, Tory dear, you must keep your self-control.”



CHAPTER XV

UNRAVELING


At the Grand Central Station Mr. Fenton and Tory found not only Dr.
McClain and Dorothy awaiting them, but Mr. Jeremy Hammond.

Tory’s first impression was surprise at his unexpected presence. She
had not seen him since the summer before in Beechwood Forest, when he
had insisted upon investigating more thoroughly the evergreen cabin in
quest of information with regard to Katherine Moore. Nothing had come
of the search save a package of letters apparently of no importance.

During the winter Kara had written that Mr. and Mrs. Hammond had come
frequently to see her, bringing the small girl whom they had adopted
from the Gray House on the Hill.

Not the faintest envy had ever influenced Kara. Tory had never been
able to dispel a slight resentment that Mr. Hammond’s choice had fallen
upon the exquisite wilful little girl rather than upon Kara.

Mr. Hammond had come to the Gray House to seek for Kara. She was the
child he had discovered in the deserted cabin years before. His sudden
fascination with Lucy’s youth and beauty caused him to disregard Kara’s
finer possibilities. However, he had afterwards proved himself Kara’s
friend and been deeply interested in her recovery. Tory concluded
that she had no right to harbor any grievance. Assuredly Kara would
seriously object to such an emotion.

The instant after greetings had been exchanged, Dorothy slipped her arm
through the newcomer’s and drew her apart from the others.

Tory found herself afraid to look closely at her friend.

Would Dorothy’s face reveal strain and unhappiness from the past few
days.

“Lance?” she queried with the first glance, and felt a sense of relief
before the reply.

Dorothy appeared grave, even disturbed, but not unhappy.

“No, there is nothing the matter with Lance. In fact, he has had a
piece of rare good fortune. We are to go to Mr. Hammond’s office as
soon as you and Mr. Fenton have left your bags at a hotel. Father must
return to Westhaven as soon as possible and wants to talk to you first.
Please don’t ask questions. It is all too involved and mysterious to
make you understand anything. I don’t understand, although I have heard
every detail.”

“One thing I must ask: Has the mystery to do with Kara?”

Dorothy nodded.

“Yes, but not what you think!” which was something of a triumph as an
answer that was valueless.

To save time, Mr. Fenton and Tory agreed to go directly to Mr.
Hammond’s place of business, which was not far away. He had a private
office and their interview, that appeared to be secret, would not
be interrupted. A telephone message secured the necessary hotel
accommodations.

Tory’s surroundings made a vivid impression upon her, although she was
scarcely aware of having done more than glance about her in the hour
that followed.

On one of the highest floors in a tall building Mr. Hammond’s office
windows commanded a magnificent view of the city--the broken skyline,
the matchless harbor, dotted with ships from the seven seas, the
network of fairy-like bridges crossing to Long Island.

Tory sat in a small, straight-backed chair near one of the windows,
with Dorothy close beside her. Their faces were turned away from the
distant vista and their eyes upon the central figure in the group of
three men.

Mr. Hammond was in his office chair near his roll-top desk.

His usual somewhat careless, debonair expression had altered to one of
concern.

“I am going to ask Hammond to tell you the story,” Dr. McClain
explained. “He has more experience with this sort of thing. I confess
a country doctor comes in touch with more curious and romantic
circumstances than most people imagine. This is a more complicated
situation than I am accustomed to handling. Personally, I am disturbed;
I don’t know what to believe or the next step to take.”

“You are not making the reason for our unexpected summons to New York
any plainer,” Mr. Fenton returned, smiling at his older friend’s
preoccupation.

Tory gave a suppressed sigh to suggest the eagerness of her own
interest, but managed to make no remark.

“It is difficult to know just where to start,” Mr. Hammond added. “Dr.
McClain is right. The story contains a number of puzzling details that
make it hard to accept. Yet there is no point in Moore’s telling
anything that is not the truth. He has nothing to gain except added
responsibility. And in a day or so he claims he will be able to offer
more definite proof. In the interval, Mr. Fenton, Dr. McClain and I
decided to ask not only your advice but your niece’s. Had we best go
on, or let the affair drop here.”

“Yes; but oh, what _is it_ you are talking about?” Tory demanded,
unable to keep silence longer.

Mr. Hammond smiled.

“I don’t wonder you are growing restless, but please listen carefully.
There are so many circumstances and chance meetings that have to be
interwoven.

“In the first place, Lance McClain tells his father and sister that
quite by accident he came in contact with a Mr. Moore. It seems that he
is a musical chap and appears to be rich and cultivated. Well, he took
an interest in Lance. He confided to me he thinks the boy a kind of a
genius and wants to help him.

“In the early part of their acquaintance they talked of nothing but
music and Lance’s ambition to set the world on fire by to-morrow or
next day, also the fact that his family had not the proper faith in
him. By and by Lance seems to have announced that his father was a
fairly good sort, except for this weakness, and was a physician in the
town of Westhaven.

“Lance tells me Westhaven awakened Mr. Moore’s interest at once. Moore
wanted to know the size of the place and its exact position, who the
prominent people were and what towns were nearby. With the aid of a
railroad map and time-table the questions were not difficult to answer.
Afterwards Lance could supply him with the town’s social history.
The boy declares he was puzzled to understand any cause for his new
friend’s interest in Westhaven, but for some reason felt in honor bound
not to inquire.

“This is where I enter the mystery story.”

At this instant Tory leaned forward, her lips parted. Would Mr. Hammond
at last reveal the point in all his past ten minutes’ conversation?
What possible difference could it make to any of them whether a
complete stranger happened to care to hear unimportant facts concerning
the town of Westhaven? Once more it occurred to Tory that the village
was not of such supreme moment as its inhabitants considered it.

“I was reading the paper one morning when idly my eyes fell upon an
advertisement signed Moore, asking that some one from Westhaven
communicate with the writer. I recalled the fact that one or two of the
letters we discovered in the evergreen cabin were signed ‘Moore.’

“If I had not been going to see Kara at the time and felt tremendously
concerned over her misfortune, I don’t believe I would have paid any
attention to the notice. I chanced to see Kara that same afternoon. We
laughed over it and I promised to reply to the advertisement, hoping it
might be entertainment for her. The child was having such a hopelessly
dull and trying time!”

She had not intended to speak, but Tory was given to impetuous
utterance of her opinions and emotions.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Hammond. I thought you were not in the least
interested in Kara, that you cared only for Lucy. I hoped you would
have chosen to adopt Kara when you came for the purpose to the Gray
House on the Hill.”

Tory abruptly stopped, feeling, rather than seeing, that her uncle’s
eyes were upon her, reproving her for the interruption.

Mr. Hammond did not appear seriously annoyed.

“Perhaps I should, Tory, but there is no accounting for other people’s
wishes and tastes. I wanted a younger child than Kara, and Lucy
fascinated me. You are mistaken, however; if I was not interested by
Kara at that first meeting, afterwards I learned to admire and care
for her. If you will try and wait for the end of my story, perhaps you
may find that Kara had a better fortune in store for her than I could
bestow.”

“I have always known something wonderful would happen for Kara,” Tory
murmured, and then flushed and bit her lips.

“Do please be still and wait, can’t you, Tory?” Dorothy whispered with
an impatience she rarely showed.

“Don’t you think you are going too far, Hammond?” Dr. McClain
interposed. “You are giving Richard Fenton and Tory the impression that
we have actual information when neither of us is completely convinced.”

Having the same sanguine and ardent temperament that Tory Drew
possessed, Mr. Hammond appeared a little nonplussed.

“Yes? Well, perhaps you are right, Dr. McClain, although I might as
well confess right here that personally I am convinced. It is getting
on toward lunch time. Will you have lunch with me and allow me to end
my story afterwards?”

Not daring to speak again, Tory’s imploring gaze at her uncle would
have influenced his decision had he not been of the same mind.

“No, we are in no hurry for lunch and considerably impatient to
discover how Lance McClain’s new-found friend has any connection with
Katherine Moore. I recall the child was brought to the Gray House on
the Hill when she was little more than a baby, with nothing known of
her parentage or history save the name written on a slip of paper
pinned to her dress.”

“Why, this Mr. Owen Moore claims to be her--”

“Father?” Mr. Fenton finished.

Tory glanced at him in an amused fashion in spite of the intensity
of her excitement, so rarely did Mr. Fenton forget to be perfectly
courteous.

The other man shook his head.

“No, not so simple as that! The story is more involved and a good deal
more sentimental, romantic, whatever you wish to call it.”

“I don’t see any reason why one should _not_ believe what Mr. Moore
says,” Dorothy McClain declared, breaking into the conversation for
the first time. The color was coming and going swiftly in her clear
skin, her gray-blue eyes were calm and untroubled. “He is a gentleman
and has any number of friends willing to guarantee the truth of what he
says. Lance declares he is the kindest and sincerest human being he has
ever known.”

“Well, here is what Mr. Moore told me at our original interview! Later
we decided to send for Dr. McClain and Dorothy for two reasons; Mr.
Moore wished to have some one else judge of his statement. He also
wished some one else to verify the account _I_ gave of discovering a
baby, deserted in a cabin on the outskirts of Westhaven more than ten
years ago. Moreover, Mr. Moore had an added interest in seeing Dr.
McClain and Dorothy in that he wished to propose a plan concerning
Lance,” Mr. Hammond continued.

“Owen Moore is a quiet, eccentric man, I should say between thirty and
forty years old, who comes originally from Boston.

“Somewhere between ten and eleven years ago he was seriously ill when
he received a letter from an old friend asking him to come to her at
once. I believe she had been more than a friend when they were younger.
They had been engaged and the engagement broken off for a reason they
afterwards regretted. So, notwithstanding his illness, knowing that
the need was urgent, he went at once to the writer of the letter. He
found her in a tumble-down farmhouse between twenty and thirty miles
from Westhaven. She was deserted and alone save for the kindness of the
neighbors, the nearest living more than a mile away. The only human
being with her was a little girl of between two and three years of age.

“Very soon after his arrival he saw that his friend was dying. She and
a physician left no doubt of the matter in his mind.

“She asked him to take her little girl, to adopt her and give her the
name, Katherine Moore.”

Dorothy’s hand reached out and caught Tory’s, calming her excitement by
her quiet grasp.

“Mr. Moore gave her his promise. The child’s father had disappeared and
there was no one else. He agreed to return later and take the little
girl away, and in the meantime intended to arrange that the friend he
had once cared for should have every comfort.

“It was not necessary; she died before he could leave. After things
were over he started away on horseback with the child. There is nothing
so extraordinary in this; romantic of course, but life is full of
romance! Mr. Moore is perfectly able to prove this portion of his
story; people are still living in the neighborhood who remember the
circumstances. I took it upon myself to go to the place and inquire
soon after my original interview with Mr. Moore. Look here, Dr.
McClain, you take the story up here. I have not talked so continuously
in years. This is your province, that it has to do with illness.”

Dr. McClain nodded.

“I seem to be the doubting spirit in this matter. I know that Dorothy
and Lance and I realize now that Mr. Hammond is equally convinced. Of
course Mr. Moore has nothing to gain, and what he tells of taking place
afterwards _is_ perfectly plausible.

“Until after he rode away from the farmhouse with the little girl, he
scarcely had thought of his own state of health. He had been conscious
of exhaustion and headache, but too wholly absorbed by the sorrowful
parting to give any thought to himself.

“As he rode on, he became more and more aware that he was suffering
from dizziness and headache. He repented having brought the child with
him. He had thought of nothing else at the time but to get as far away
from the scene as possible. He intended taking a train for Boston at a
nearby station and sending the horse back to a neighboring farm by some
one at the station. He was not familiar with the country and lost his
way. He continued riding on, growing less and less responsible for what
he was doing. He seems very hazy upon these details, but believes he
dismounted and went into a house that he saw along the way to ask for
aid. He claims to have known nothing more of what took place for weeks.
He awakened in a hospital in Boston, where he had been desperately ill.
Not at once did he recall the experience through which he had lately
passed, and only by degrees did the knowledge return to him.”

“Well, why did he not come back and find Kara as soon as he
remembered?” Tory demanded, torn between anger and rapture.

This was a more thrilling story than her imagination had conceived in
days when she used to amuse the practical Kara with the wildest stories
of her unknown history.

“I don’t myself see why not, Tory,” Dr. McClain answered. “Mr. Moore
says that he did make careful inquiries, but had no idea of where
he had left the child, not even the name of any nearby town. He must
have ridden a good many miles before he reached the vicinity of the
evergreen cabin. He has always had some one employed to investigate
the matter and always expected eventually to find the child. Some
months ago he was told of the Gray House on the Hill in Westhaven, and
naturally reached the conclusion that the little girl may have been
brought up in an orphan asylum. He sent a lawyer to Westhaven to make
inquiries and inserted the advertisement that Mr. Hammond answered.
When he learned Lance came from Westhaven, naturally he proved another
source of information.”

“Well, has Mr. Moore seen Kara? What does _she_ say? How has she borne
the excitement? How amused and surprised Kara must be after always
insisting that she was the most prosaic of persons and never would
there be any possible interest connected with her history!” Tory
exclaimed.

Dr. McClain frowned.

“That is just it, Tory, and the reason we have sent for you. Kara has
not seen Mr. Moore, she has been told nothing. If his story is not
true, or if she should not be the child, I am worried concerning the
effect it might have upon her. She is improving slowly and I don’t wish
anything to interfere. What is your opinion?”

“Tell Kara at once,” Tory replied. “She has the right to hear. You need
not be afraid for Kara in a situation like this. She is one of the
sanest people in the world. If nothing comes of it she will be no less
happy. All she really cares for is to be well again so that she can
make her own future.”

“Then you girls will prepare her?” Dr. McClain asked.

There was nothing for Tory and Dorothy save to agree.



CHAPTER XVI

DOUBT


“I never heard a more unlikely story in my life, Tory darling; it
certainly can have nothing to do with me! I don’t see how you and
Dorothy can possibly regard it seriously. Oh, well, perhaps I can see
that _you_ would seize upon any straw and let your imagination do
the rest! You always have been so determined to find me a thrilling
background. But, Dorothy, _you_ are a much more matter-of-fact person
and don’t really believe this Mr. Moore has any connection with me.”

The three girls were driving along Riverside, not in a car, but
actually in an old-fashioned carriage, which Mr. Fenton had obtained
with great difficulty.

Kara was well enough to be in need of fresh air and a change of
environment. Her two friends thought she appeared frailer than when
they had last seen her during the Christmas holidays, but in a happier
state of mind. So they had chosen to confide their piece of news not
inside her small hospital room, but during a quiet drive along the
river.

At first it appeared a problem to divert Kara’s attention from the
beauty of the Palisades, smoke-gray and violet in the afternoon light,
from her interest in the cars passing and repassing, from the boats
moving slowly or swiftly up and down the broad expanse of water.

A faint color came into her cheeks, her eyes were growing more humorous
and less wistful. Neither of her companions wished to intrude a serious
subject of conversation upon her mood.

“Surely, you have been out driving before, haven’t you, Kara? You have
been well enough to be out of doors for several weeks. Can’t you pay
more attention to us and less to the scenery?” Tory demanded finally,
fearing the drive might be at an end and they forced to separate before
their story could be told.

Kara smiled with the wide gray eyes that were her chief beauty.

“Of course I have been driving before! Mr. and Mrs. Hammond and Lucy
have taken me several times in their car. Once, not long ago, Lance
actually appeared in a taxicab which he said he had the privilege of
using for two hours. He told me the friend who had been so kind to him
wished him to invite me for a ride through Central Park. Lance wanted
to talk of the wonderful chance he thought might be coming to him.”

The opening had seemed propitious. Tory nodded at Dorothy to ask her
advice.

Then observing that Kara was laughing at them both, she hesitated.

Dorothy made no pretence of introducing the subject. She and Tory had
agreed that it was wiser for Tory to give an outline of the situation,
with Dorothy to corroborate and add convincing details that otherwise
might be forgotten.

Between her two friends upon the low, broad seat of an old-fashioned
vehicle which resembled a victoria, a favorite equipage of bygone days,
Kara now slipped her hand inside theirs.

“Do you suppose I have had a drive I have enjoyed like this with both
of you beside me? But, Tory dear, please tell me what it is you wish to
say. I hope you may never have any _very_ important secret to conceal,
you are so transparent! This afternoon I don’t mind hearing, as from
your expression I am sure it is something exciting. So I can listen
and look at our surroundings at the same time, can’t I?”

“No, Kara, you must give me your undivided attention,” Tory replied, so
solemnly that the other girl was silenced. A slight wave of what might
have suggested regret passed over her face.

Life had been so full of serious things these past six months, she had
wanted one happy afternoon, when she might forget.

During the long recital she had asked a few questions and at this
instant had uttered her innermost conviction.

“I believe you are mistaken, Kara. When you see Mr. Moore you will feel
differently. He is very quiet and seems to dislike meeting strangers
and having to discuss his private affairs. He declares that the thought
of having failed to keep his promise, and knowing nothing of the little
girl he was to care for all these years, has made him more of a recluse
than he might otherwise have been. As a matter of fact, father says he
is convinced at last that Mr. Moore is telling the truth. He has seen
his lawyer and learned that he is a member of a distinguished family
and has the reputation for being extremely cultured and generous.
Certainly his kindness to Lance might have convinced father without
further investigation! I really believe that father, without realizing
the fact, is a little jealous because Mr. Moore has been able to do for
Lance what he could not afford, and Lance adores him!” Dorothy McClain
interposed, observing that Tory appeared crestfallen at the fashion in
which Kara had received the amazing story.

“Yes, I understand, Dorothy. I am not in the least venturing to dispute
Mr. Moore’s account of what he thinks occurred so many years ago. I
only very seriously doubt that I have any part in it. I presume there
are hundreds of other children who are as likely to be the girl he is
seeking.” Kara’s tone lacked entire conviction.

“Please don’t say what you really know isn’t true, Kara!” Tory
protested, with more irritability than she realized. She had been
tremendously keyed up over the problem of imparting the extraordinary
situation to the other girl. She could not help being annoyed by Kara’s
calm dismissal of its importance.

“It is absurd to pretend that the fact the name ‘Katherine Moore’
was pinned to your dress, when you were discovered, does not help
in identifying you. Mr. Moore says that your mother asked that you
be called by his name. He spoke of you as Katherine before any one
thought of mentioning the one thing that _is known_ concerning you.
Is it that you do not want what we have told you to be true, Kara? To
deny that you are the girl Mr. Moore is searching for is ridiculous.
He has undeniable proof that Westhaven is between twenty and thirty
miles from the farm where he found you and your mother. The evergreen
cabin is along the route to the station where he took the train for
Boston. Mr. Moore believes that he realized he was ill and started out
to find some one to look after you. He must have grown worse, because
he knew nothing for several weeks. Then he found himself in a hospital
in Boston. Dr. McClain says this often occurs in illness. Mr. Moore
had intended going to Boston and must have gotten on board the train.
Afterwards people on the train took charge of him; they found his name
and address from letters in his pocket. He was an old bachelor with no
close relatives and had confided to no one where he had gone, but his
friends were looking after him when he recovered consciousness.”

“Yes, Tory, you seem to have arranged everything satisfactorily, as
if you had been writing a mystery story and had carefully gathered up
all the clews! May I be allowed to say that I would like to have it
explained to me why a package of letters were given to me at the end of
last summer found in the old fireplace at the evergreen cottage? Did
the eccentric old bachelor dispose of the letters in the same fashion
he got rid of me?”

“Then you confess you were the child, Kara?” Tory interrupted. “Don’t
attempt to pretend you do not think so after what you have said.”

“But I am _not_ convinced. I think it is all very tiresome and absurd
and I wish you had never told me. After all, suppose it is true and I
am the girl, he is no relative of mine! I prefer the Gray House and my
friends in Westhaven. I don’t wish to have anything to do with this Mr.
Moore. Dr. McClain says I may be well in a year or so and then I shall
be able to take care of myself.”

A second time Tory was beginning to protest and reproach Kara for
her unreasonable attitude, but a warning glance from Dorothy McClain
restrained her.

Kara’s color, her cheerful expression had vanished. She was white and
exhausted.

“If you don’t mind, I think I would like to go back to the hospital; I
am tired all of a sudden,” she remarked.

Tory was frightened.

She had insisted that Kara be told the peculiar circumstances she had
just related, arguing that she would receive the information in her
usual sensible and matter-of-fact fashion.

Kara had been through too much suffering and anxiety since her accident
the summer before to have any new problem presented to her. Should they
have waited until she was stronger? Tory was not sure.

She put her arm about the slender figure.

“Do try not to think any more of what we have been talking about for
the present, Kara. It is my fault, I wanted you to hear. If you don’t
like Mr. Moore you need not have anything to do with him. You have
friends enough if he never had been heard of! I shall hate it if he
does more for you than we can. Just the same I think you had best know
that Mr. Moore has seen the letters. Mr. Hammond showed them to him.
They were ordinary friendly letters he had written your mother from
time to time, not important, and thinks he must have thrown them into
the fire with the idea of burning them. There is no question that the
letters were written by him, as his handwriting is exactly the same.”

“Do you think it my duty to see this Mr. Moore, Dorothy? I know what
Tory will say,” Kara inquired when they were within a block of their
destination. “Can you imagine anything more disappointing than for a
man of the kind Lance describes, cultured, musical, of a distinguished
family, to have to devote any time or thought to so insignificant a
person as I am? There is _one_ consolation, he is sure to like me even
less than I shall like him.”

“I would not trouble. I would not see Mr. Moore for the present, Kara
dear,” Dorothy answered in a calm and reassuring tone. “In any case you
must talk the matter over with father before you decide. He is coming
to see you after dinner to-night, as he must return to Westhaven in the
morning. If you do conclude to see Mr. Moore, why, I would not for days
and days until I was in exactly the right mood.”



CHAPTER XVII

AN ANNOUNCEMENT


An occasional early spring day was making its appearance in the
Connecticut valley. Only a few faint spears of green showed on the
long, pointed fingers of the willow trees, a bursting of the hardiest
buds on the lilac bushes, while the pussy willow was enjoying its usual
triumph, the first harbinger of the approaching season.

As a matter of fact, when the Girl Scouts and their Troop Captain set
out on their afternoon hike, except to eager and trained eyes winter
was still chiefly in evidence.

In out-of-the-way places there were thin layers of ice with the melted
water showing beneath. The skies were gray, with rare streaks of blue,
the atmosphere had the clear sharpness of recent frost, the wind blew
with a definite chillness.

The group of twelve girls and their Captain were on their way to
Beechwood Forest, where they had spent the previous summer in camping.

“Do you suppose we can manage to stop by the House in the Woods and see
Miss Frean? I have not seen her in ages!” Dorothy McClain remarked. “Do
you see as much of her as usual, Tory?”

Her companion shook her head.

“No; I don’t believe Memory cares for me as much as she did when we
first knew each other. It is difficult to explain. She is as kind and
charming as ever, but I have lost the feeling that she wants me with
her. Uncle Richard no longer goes to see her. I don’t know what could
have happened and he declined to explain. After Memory’s illness in
the early winter he used to call on her frequently. I have sometimes
wondered if I remind her too much of him. But here I am romancing
again! Glad you do not object so seriously as Kara!”

The girls were not walking in drill formation and so were able to talk
with one another.

Louise Miller at this moment caught up with her two friends.

“Forgive me if I overheard a part of what you were saying, Tory,” she
began, “and forgive me again if I say that I don’t think you ought to
have thought or expressed such an opinion. Miss Frean is as fond of you
as she ever was. There is no question that she has more real affection
for you than any other of the Girl Scouts. The other thing you spoke of
is her own affair and I don’t feel you should have mentioned it.”

Louise had an abrupt, awkward fashion of speech that at times made her
family and friends angry.

Reproachfully Dorothy McClain shook her head at this moment.

Tory had a quick temper. She rarely made unfortunate remarks to other
persons, and having beautiful manners under most circumstances, perhaps
possessed the right to resent the lack of them in other people.

At this moment she flushed and bit her lips, but made no reply.

“Don’t you think, after all, that what Tory thinks and declares is her
own affair and not yours, Ouida? When did you decide to become the
censor of our manners?”

Dorothy’s tone held a slight dryness that was a sharper rebuke than
irritation, especially as she so rarely criticized the other girl, in
spite of their years of intimacy.

“Dorothy is right, I beg your pardon, Tory,” Louise faltered, a slow
color making her heavy features less attractive.

“The truth is I am so grateful for what Miss Frean has offered to do
for me that I am too ready to defend her where I have no shadow of
justification.”

“What is Memory going to do for you, Louise?” Tory inquired, having
fought and conquered her sudden gust of temper. She was learning more
self-control of late, when she had been tried in more than one fashion.

“Perhaps I should not have said what I did, but Dorothy and I have
grown so intimate over the problem of Kara’s strange attitude that
I tell her most things. I suppose Memory is helping you because she
thinks you are specially in need of her help. She has a way of passing
herself from one person to the other for this reason.”

Louise hesitated.

“I am one of the most awkward persons in the world, Tory, and you are
a dear not to be angry! I overheard what was not intended for me and
reproached you for it.

“Yes, I do need Miss Frean’s help. I have not had a happy winter,
things at home are becoming more and more difficult. It is just such
things as my having made that impolite speech to you without intending
or realizing how it might affect you, that makes my mother hopeless
concerning me. I thought after last summer I would improve.”

“Yes, Ouida, but come to the point. What is Miss Frean to do to help
reconcile you to life? Don’t you suppose I appreciate that things
have been specially hard for you at home? Perhaps you have not been
conscious of the fact, but I have seen less of you this winter than
since we were tiny girls. Even old Don noticed the fact and asked me
what was the matter,” Dorothy McClain protested.

For just a flashing moment Louise’s heavy features lightened and Tory
caught the look of affectionate devotion in the large, pale-gray eyes
with their queerly fringed lashes.

“No day has passed without my seeing you, Dorothy, when I have not
missed you and longed for you. But I knew you had Tory and the
excitement of Lance and Kara. Then mother did not wish me to see so
much of you,” Louise added with her fatal tactlessness.

At this it was Dorothy whose color flushed her clear, bright skin. Her
gray-blue eyes dropped.

“Sorry your mother thinks I am a bad influence! Perhaps I am! Only,
Tory, I trust Miss Victoria and Mr. Fenton will not reach the same
conclusion, or I should be deserted indeed.”

“Now you are hurting Ouida. Do let’s be sensible and stop arguing.
Louise did not mean that her mother considered you an undesirable
character, Dorothy. Perhaps she may be just a little jealous of
Louise’s affection for you. We are but mortals, all of us, even
mothers, I suppose, although Dorothy has no mother and I only a
stepmother.” Tory made an amusing grimace. “I would like to recall the
fact, Louise, that we still are in the dark with regard to you and
Memory Frean. Here, I may as well confess my jealousy. I don’t like
Louise being more of a favorite than I am, just as I resented Edith
Linder, I suppose.”

“Oh, it is nothing to create envy, hatred, malice or other
uncharitableness, Tory,” Louise answered, her serenity restored, and
smiling happily. “You would hate what Miss Frean and I are planning
to do. I am to be allowed to spend an afternoon each week with her
and go on with the studies of the outdoors that I found so thrilling
during our summer camp. We are going to study tree-ology and bug-ology
and stone-ology. Miss Frean insists she does not know about them, but
we can work outdoors together and she will have as much pleasure as
I feel. This cannot be true, but is a delightful idea. She does not
think it absurd for me to wish to become a naturalist. One may have it
for a pastime at least! Anyhow, I won’t do what I dislike all the time!”

Half an hour later one would scarcely have believed in the lessening of
the affection between Tory Drew and Memory Frean.

The Troop of Scouts and their Captain having halted at the House in the
Woods, Miss Frean had been persuaded to join them for the deeper walk
into the forest.

The beech woods were full of shadows and little shivery, sighing winds.
A few seared leaves that had clung all winter to the otherwise bare
branches rattled and shook like castanets. The younger beeches showed a
few uncurling leaves and ripples of light along the gray-brown bark of
their trunks.

On the ground under the trees were the first spring beauties and wild
pale violets.

The girls had scattered into groups and were investigating the favorite
haunts of the past summer.

Tory Drew led Miss Frean apart from the others and away from the woods
toward the shore of the small lake. Above rose the three pine hills.

The girl shrugged her shoulders with a faintly nervous gesture.

“I don’t like the woods to-day for some reason, Memory; they are kind
of ghosty and unfriendly. I like shining places filled with light and
color.”

The older woman shook her head.

“You are too impressionable, Tory dear! I wish you would not always
yield to your fancies.”

In response Tory smiled and dropped her head an instant against her
companion’s shoulder with one of her favorite gestures of affection.

“It is nice to hear you scold. I was just telling Dorothy and Louise
that you had ceased to care for me as you did in the beginning of our
friendship. I have not enjoyed it.”

“You are mistaken, Tory. I care for you perhaps more than ever. Your
winter has been more absorbed than you realize in your interest in the
strange circumstances concerning Kara and in your concern over Lance
McClain. Besides, I thought it best to realize I might be making a
mistake if I should become too devoted to one Girl Scout who might any
day go away to join her father and her friends and Westhaven see her no
more.”

There was a gravity in her companion’s voice that startled the girl,
who had been only half in earnest.

“Why, I am not going away, Memory! At least I have no idea of any such
possibility! Father has said nothing of it. And in any case I should
always come back to Westhaven. There is Uncle Richard and you and the
Girl Scouts! Why did you make such a suggestion? Do you remember that
when you presented me with my talisman you said I would learn to love
Westhaven with all my heart and that no matter where I might be I would
wander back now and then?”

Miss Frean nodded.

“Yes, Tory, I remember very well. I want to make a confession. I was
growing too fond of you to be content with an occasional sight of you,
perhaps with a year or years in between. So I came to my senses and
concluded I had no possible claim upon you except that we must always
be good friends and you must come to me freely at any time when I can
be of use.”

Tory’s face clouded.

“I see. So before anything happened you put me out of your life and
thought, just as you must have Uncle Richard many years ago.”

If Tory’s speech startled her companion it was as unexpected in her own
ears. What a fatal gift she had of speaking from the depth of her inner
thought!

“Tory!” Miss Frean exclaimed.

“I am sorry. I had not intended to be rude, only what I said must be
true. You are such a self-sufficient person, Memory Frean, and Uncle
Richard and I are not. We have found we are a good deal alike since we
have been living together, although I never believed I was in the least
like my mother’s people. I suppose you won’t tell me why you will not
allow Uncle Richard to be friends with you at present? He was enjoying
coming to see you, and he calls on very few people.”

The older woman hesitated, her blue eyes, ordinarily serene, looking
uncertain and troubled.

“You are an impetuous person, Tory, and will never fail in this world
for any lack of sincerity. After all, there is no reason why I should
not tell you what you ask! You may be annoyed with me, but I think I am
right.”

Tory sighed.

“Yes, I suppose you are. You are one of the persons who would be right,
yet I have an idea it has been hard for Uncle Richard.”

Her speech made Miss Frean’s answer more difficult, nevertheless she
went on firmly:

“Your uncle and I were more than friends when we were younger. I don’t
know how much or how little you have been told. His family never wished
him to marry me, and for that and other reasons our engagement was
broken. I have never cared for any one since. Well, this winter when
we renewed our friendship I was enjoying it. I am lonelier than you
believe, Tory, with your rather hard opinion of me. But by and by,
Richard--Mr. Fenton seemed to have the impression that we might ignore
the passing of nearly twenty years. I thought he was mistaken and that
it was wiser we should not meet often. Do you understand?”

Tory shrugged her shoulders with the little foreign gesture that she
had not yet wholly lost.

“Yes; how can I fail to understand? It is just as I thought.”

The silence that followed was not comfortable and Miss Frean added:

“Suppose we don’t talk about ourselves, Tory. Please tell me about
Kara. I am deeply interested and not so surprised as most people by her
attitude toward Mr. Moore.”

“Well, I am surprised and, more than that, I am awfully annoyed with
Kara. Not that it makes the slightest difference to her. You know Kara
is one of the quietly firm people whom one cannot change. She must see
for herself.

“She has decided to accept the fact that Mr. Moore is her guardian in
the sense that her mother begged this favor of him many years ago, not
otherwise. She has declined to allow him legally to adopt her. She is
friendly but does not wish him to do anything for her. She says that he
will not find her congenial and that as soon as she is well enough she
wants to come back to the Gray House on the Hill until she has finished
school. Nothing will induce her to give up the idea that she wishes to
make her own living as soon as she is strong enough. In the meantime
she is studying stenography whenever she has any leisure. And actually
Mr. Hammond and Dr. McClain and Uncle Richard uphold her. They say
they admire her spirit. Mr. Hammond has given Kara a typewriter which
she was at least gracious enough to accept. She has taken nothing from
poor Mr. Moore, who wants to be as nice as possible, except books and
candy and flowers. She has condescended to drive with him a few times.
I really think Kara is partly obstinate because I used to tell her
she would be sure to develop a romantic history. She insisted I wanted
her to have a rich guardian and to grow up and marry him like the
sentimental stories of girls in orphan asylums the world over. So now
Kara, who might have a rich guardian, repudiates him!”

Memory Frean laughed.

“Well, I must say I too admire Kara’s fortitude. And we all suffer a
little from your romantic tendencies, Tory. By and by Kara will become
more friendly. Naturally she is more concerned with getting well at
present.”

“If she does not recover in New York, Mr. Moore has spoken of taking
Kara and Lance to Europe so that Lance can study music and Kara see
what can be done for her. If she does not get well I don’t see how she
can refuse this. I believe Kara would accept anything to make her walk
again, even if she insisted on earning the money in the future and
returning it to Mr. Moore.

“Isn’t it nearly teatime, Memory? I see several of the girls walking
toward the evergreen cottage.”

The arrangement had been that after a walk to the woods the Girl Scouts
and their Captain would have tea inside their cabin with Philip
Winslow, the artist, who had been living there during the winter and
been added as a member of the Girl Scout Council.

At this moment he and the Troop Captain were walking away from the
cabin toward them.

“Tory, if you are determined upon a romance, have you ever thought
there may be any deeper feeling between Mr. Winslow and Sheila than
mere friendship? I know she has been very kind to him all winter,
wishing to make him feel less a stranger in Westhaven.”

Tory laughed.

“Thought of a romance between them? Why, Dorothy and I feel perfectly
certain. Haven’t you noticed not only the change in Mr. Winslow but in
Sheila? Isn’t she gay and charming? She never talks of being unhappy
any more. Dorothy and I are so pleased and responsible. You see, we
really persuaded Mr. Winslow to come to Westhaven and actually Dorothy
suggested the idea of Sheila’s helping him to recover from some
disappointment we felt sure he had suffered. Sheila was annoyed but
seems to have followed the advice.”

No other conversation upon the subject was possible, since at this
moment the Troop Captain and Philip Winslow were within a few yards of
Tory and Miss Frean.

“We were afraid you would forget to come to the cabin in time for our
feast,” Sheila Mason remarked, slipping her hand inside Miss Frean’s.
“There is something I want to tell you.”

Tory and Philip Winslow were walking on together.

“I have had a piece of good luck, Tory. I want you to congratulate me.
You have been my mascot, you see.”

“Good luck? I am so glad! Dorothy and I thought it was true, but we
were not sure. It is such a heavenly relief to know.”

Her companion appeared puzzled and amused.

“How could you have guessed I was going to receive a prize at the
National Academy exhibition this year? I had no conception of any such
good fortune, myself. And what’s more I have sold the picture for two
thousand dollars. I believe the fates have turned and I am now in
their good graces. This is all due to you and my coming to Westhaven
and becoming, well, not a Girl Scout, as you once suggested, but the
nearest thing I could manage, a member of your Council.”

In spite of the good news Tory made no immediate reply.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Tory? I thought we artists had a
fellow feeling for each other! As a matter of fact, I thought we were
great friends. Some day I am going to be proud of you as an artist,
Tory, when your time comes.”

Still Tory was reluctant and surprisingly ungracious.

“Oh, yes, I do congratulate you,” she said finally with a change in
manner and tone. “And it is not only because of the picture, although
that is wonderful, but I realize this will help with the other thing.
Not that _she_ would care, but that you will feel so much more sure of
yourself and your future.”

If Tory was not very clear or coherent, Mr. Winslow made no pretence of
not understanding her.

“Yes, Tory, I did not dare to speak to Sheila until this happened. She
and I were going to tell the Girl Scouts when we had finished tea, but
I am glad to tell you first and alone.

“We are to build a house near Westhaven and for a time I am going
to make pictures of this beautiful Connecticut valley. We will work
together, you and I, Tory. The disappointed, dissatisfied man you met
in the old New York studio not many months ago seems almost a stranger.
Come, they are waiting for us.”



CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAST ROUND TABLE


In honor of Katherine Moore’s farewell visit to Westhaven there was to
be a special meeting of the Girl Scouts of the Round Table in Memory
Frean’s House in the Woods.

After all, circumstances had been more powerful than Kara. The doctors
had agreed that a sea voyage and a consultation with certain eminent
surgeons in Europe would be helpful. So Kara had decided to accept the
kindness from a stranger who might have played so different a rôle in
the last twelve years of her life, but was now deeply anxious to make
amends.

In any case Mr. Moore had intended going abroad for the summer with
Lance McClain. He explained that he wanted Lance’s companionship,
having developed a keen interest in him and wishing him to have the
best possible musical education.

During the latter part of the spring--the date had not been finally
settled--Mr. Moore, with Kara and Lance, was to sail for London.

The length of Kara’s visit to Westhaven was to depend upon the time of
departure.

It was pleasant to think of the number of invitations that the young
girl, who had been in a fashion the ward of the village, had showered
upon her for these few weeks before her farewell.

With something approaching relief, Kara allowed Miss Victoria Fenton
to make the decision for her. She was to come directly to her brother
and herself and her niece. Her other friends might see her there at any
time, as their house was large and fairly quiet, when Tory permitted
it to be. The downstairs bedroom, so rarely used, was at their guest’s
disposal. Moreover, Miss Victoria permitted herself to acknowledge that
she very much wanted the pleasure of having Kara in her home. She had
developed a deep interest and affection for her.

For once Tory concurred with her aunt’s desire.

She was fascinated to observe Miss Victoria in her tender and
thoughtful attitude toward Katherine Moore during her visit in their
household and to learn her own lesson. Never had Miss Victoria
outwardly displayed so much affection, not even toward her own
brother, whom she adored. They had differed with regard to his
engagement many years before, and, although neither was aware of the
fact, the sympathy of their relation had never been entirely restored.

Kara’s practical nature, her humor and courage did not jar upon Miss
Victoria, for she had been compelled by circumstances to spend her life
with dreamers, who were trying to her narrow, well-ordered nature.

Moreover, she had a passion for looking after people who needed
her. Kara was almost embarrassed by her kindness and her attentions
until Tory confided the discovery she lately had made that her aunt
required just what Kara could give her. Certainly Miss Victoria would
rather have perished than confess the fact that in the past year she
had suffered many qualms of jealousy over her brother’s and niece’s
congeniality and a devotion that had left her out in the cold.

Kara had improved, but still continued to be troubled by a curious lack
of sensation. She was forced to spend the greater part of her time
either upon a couch or in a chair. It was difficult for Tory, who was
not conspicuously unselfish; yet she had the generosity to leave Kara
and her aunt alone as often as she could decide to make the sacrifice
of the few remaining hours with the girl friend whom she had cared for
from the hour of their original meeting.

The Round Table was toward the close of Kara’s stay in Westhaven. She
was to sail early in May and must be back in New York for a week or
more before the date set.

Without wavering, Kara still utterly declined to play any such fanciful
rôle as a Knight of the Round Table. Notwithstanding Tory’s pleading,
she would not come to the final meeting of the Round Table in any other
costume than her Girl Scout one. She was keenly interested in the
spectacle, however, and entreated the other Girl Scouts to allow her to
see how they must have looked upon the Christmas Eve entertainment six
months before.

The season made a difference in the decorations. No longer ornamented
with pines and evergreens, the living-room of the House in the Woods
was beautiful with spring flowers and shrubs.

Against the brown walls were branches of blossoming dogwood, long
sprays of the fragrant, rose-pink trailing arbutus. On the mantel
and tables were vases of white and purple lilacs and a single bowl of
splendid crimson roses that had come to the House in the Woods with no
card attached. The hostess understood, however, that they were a gift
from Mr. Fenton.

To-night they stood in the center of the Round Table.

There was no raised dais, the Troop Captain insisting on having her
place at the Round Table, which included Miss Frean.

Suspended from the rafters of the great room were the silver banners,
no longer of unmarked silver cloth. Embroidered upon them in the chosen
colors of the Knights were stories of their services during the past
half year.

Edith Linder’s was the supreme achievement! No one of the Scouts in her
Troop would have dreamed of disputing this fact.

To-night she wore the Golden Eaglet badge, the highest honor awarded a
Scout. The single act of devotion on the part of one girl had afforded
an example to the others. The sufferers from the great factory fire
had received many kindnesses and attentions from the Girl Scouts
Troop of the Eagle’s Wing. The little group of girls, members of a
comparatively unknown organization in Westhaven a year and a half ago,
were now accounted one of the chief factors for beauty and service in
the village life.

Toward the close of this evening, Katherine Moore looked slowly from
one face to the other of the friends surrounding her and then about the
exquisite room, fragrant and shining with a wealth of green-and-white
candles.

“To me it seems to have been a wonderful Scout winter, in spite of the
fact that you told me until after Christmas you feared that you were
slipping back from the enthusiasm of the early days of our Scouting. I
am sorry, but I seem to be the only one of you who has done nothing. I
am glad I declined to allow you to include me as a Knight of your Round
Table. I should have proved neither a worthy Knight nor Scout.”

Kara was so unconscious of the impression that her words were making
upon the group of girls that no one of them dared reply for a moment.

Then, not one of the Scouts answered, but the Troop Captain, Sheila
Mason, with the gentler, happier expression that her Troop of girls
were accustomed to seeing upon her face of late.

“Perhaps, Kara, you do not recognise as we do what you have
accomplished. Is it nothing to fight the good fight as you have
fought it, to have kept your courage and faith and humor under such
difficulties?

“The members of your Troop of Girl Scouts do not agree with you. Edith
Linder is the only one of us who at present wears the Golden Eaglet
badge. We have decided that _one_ other girl from our Troop deserves
this same token. Your record has been approved, Kara, so allow me to
present you with the Golden Eaglet.”

The presentation was informal. After the Troop Captain had pinned the
badge to the lapel of Kara’s pocket, she stooped and kissed her, her
eyes suddenly filling with tears.

“We want you to wear this badge for more than one reason, Kara. If you
are lonely among strangers in the days to come, think of the affection
of the Girl Scouts. One or the other of us will have you in mind every
hour of the day.”

An hour later the Round Table discussion had closed, not alone with
farewells for Kara, but with whispered suggestions of future plans.

A few moments after Kara and Tory were together outside the door of the
House in the Woods, waiting for the car that was to drive them home.

Above them in a nearly cloudless sky the moon swam, brilliant and
serene.

“It was absurd of you, Kara, and so like you to suggest to-night that
you were the least worthy member of our Troop of Girl Scouts. You
may be a sensible and practical person, Kara, but just the same your
humility was ill timed.”

“Don’t, please, Tory. Tease me on any other subject, but not that. I
feel my own unworthiness even more deeply, and yet what could I do
under the circumstances? Not to have accepted the undeserved honor
would have been too ungracious! I seem to have many things bestowed
upon me of late that I have no right to possess. Poor Mr. Moore and
Lance! Can you imagine how bored they will be by my society?”

Tory shook her head, her eyes dark and soft in the moonlight, her lips
red and trembling slightly.

“No, Kara, what you suggest is beyond even my imagination!

“Strange that you should be sailing for Europe and leaving me in
Westhaven! Do you remember how we used to talk and dread the opposite
thing happening? Then I supposed I would go away and you stay on here.
I am sure I should be less missed.”

Kara laughed.

“No, Tory. You are the yeast in our dough. Don’t you realize this? Oh,
I suppose I might have thought of a prettier figure of speech for you,
but not a truer one. You have wakened us all, and brought us beauty and
ways of thinking and living we would not have had in Westhaven without
you.

“Now for a little while we must say good-by; but wait for me here,
won’t you, Tory.”

The girls could hear the car stopping.

An instant Kara glanced upward and then at the scene before them--the
open space, the tall freshly green trees, the figure of the girl beside
her, glistening and radiant from the moonlight.

“You see, Tory, it is everywhere and all about us, what you say you
wish, a shining world. We have said good-night and good-by; let us slip
away quietly.”



CHAPTER XIX

AN UNWRITTEN STORY


To say good-by to his family and friends before sailing for Europe,
Lance McClain also came back to Westhaven for a few days’ visit.

The visit was not so satisfactory as Kara’s to her friends across the
way, because Lance was moody and restless and not, as one would have
expected, especially happy.

It may be that he was troubled over the thought of leaving his father
and sister and his favorite brother, Donald; if this were true, he made
no such confession.

The days were busy ones, as Lance had to be made ready for his trip
of the summer and perhaps a longer time abroad, and no one in Dr.
McClain’s household knew just what he would require, nor how to set
about getting his outfit in the least extravagant fashion.

The wardrobes of the various members of Dr. McClain’s family had never
played important parts in their lives. The oldest of the brothers, who
had gone away to college for two years, had passed though a brief
period of fashionable airs. The others either laughing or failing to
notice, and by and by settling down to a business career in Westhaven,
Jonathan McClain had forgotten. The other boys, when the doctor’s
receipts were fair, boasted two suits a year, and borrowed and hooked
one another’s choicest possessions upon special occasions.

Dorothy, as the only daughter, might have had greater indulgences.
Every now and then Dr. McClain regarded her half wistfully and half
critically, begging her to tell him if she was as well looked after as
the other girls who were her friends and had mothers. Dorothy used only
to laugh at him and insist that she possessed everything in the world
she required, promising to inform him the instant she found herself in
need. The truth was that Dorothy, with her half-boyish attitude toward
life, so far had given little consideration to the question of her own
costumes.

Of the girls in her Patrol, only Teresa Peterson was really intensely
interested in the subject up to the present time, although several of
the other girls showed unmistakable signs of increasing concern.

Now with the problem of Lance to be immediately solved, Dorothy wished
she had developed more feminine knowledge and taste, at least where her
brothers were concerned.

Mr. Moore, Lance’s friend, and in some measure Kara’s guardian,
although she had not agreed to legal adoption, had offered to supply
him with whatever might be missing from his present outfit. This Dr.
McClain utterly refused to consider. Trying enough to his pride and
sense of responsibility to permit Lance’s other expenses to be paid by
almost a complete stranger! In the face of Lance’s impassioned desire
and pleading he could not refuse, but certainly the boy should not
start off like a pauper!

What made conditions more difficult for Dorothy and the elderly
housekeeper was, that having delivered this ultimatum, neither the
Doctor nor Lance appeared to have any further concern in the matter.
All they did was to drive around together, not talking a great deal,
Lance simply sitting quietly with his father and waiting for him in the
ancient automobile when he disappeared to make his daily calls.

On the afternoon before Lance was to return to New York Dorothy was
complaining of this difficulty before a group of intimate friends upon
the back veranda of the old Fenton house.

Hand in hand, like a little girl and boy, Lance and Dorothy had run
across the street to say farewell to Tory and Kara, as Lance was to go
back to town a little earlier than his traveling companion.

Ten minutes after their arrival, Don had followed, not wishing to be
left out.

They had drifted out upon the back porch after drinking hot chocolate
in the dining-room and eating one of Sarah’s cakes, especially baked
for the farewell feast.

The spring afternoon was chilly and the back garden looked slightly
forbidding. The grass was only faintly green, Miss Victoria’s favorite
shrubs were still wrapped in straw and the birds in the old fruit trees
appeared to have no animation save to seek shelter.

Comfortably clad in coats and overcoats, the little group on the porch
revealed no such lack of spirit.

Kara was in her usual chair, Tory on a cushion beside her. Dorothy sat
on the porch railing, Lance near her and Don standing a few feet away.

Five minutes before they had other guests: three Boy Scouts in Lance’s
and Don’s Patrol. Having said their good-bys, they had marched off
together, glad the always painful duty was over.

“I trust Lance won’t prove a disgrace to you and Mr. Moore, Kara,”
Dorothy continued. “He and father have solemnly promised me to purchase
his going-away suit and overcoat the day before he sails. You know
father will be in New York to see you both off. At times I feel I would
like to be with him, and then again I don’t trust myself.”

Tory Drew gazed thoughtfully from one of her friends to the other,
omitting no one of them. She saw Kara pale and wistful and more than a
little frightened over the strange journey ahead of her with her almost
unknown friend and Lance. She saw Lance troubled at parting with the
dearest members of his family, yet tense with dreams, sorry to be going
and eager to set off. She saw Don puzzled and annoyed by Lance and
nevertheless proud of him, for Don did not approve of Lance’s accepting
Mr. Moore’s kindness. Too much it would have hurt his own self-respect.
He did not believe Lance should leave his father, knowing how much
his father cared for him beyond his other sons. He simply could not
understand that, although Lance could see these things in a measure
as he did, he cared more for his music. Nor could Don appreciate that
Lance had the artist’s idea that once he succeeded he could more than
repay all he had accepted.

The sight of Don’s face touched Tory and gave her a sensation of warm
championship she never felt for his more gifted brother. Don looked so
strong and good-natured and steadfast.

At the last Tory’s eyes caught Dorothy’s glance.

“Think it much wiser for us to remain in Westhaven, Dorothy dear, and
have no tragic farewells! Kara insists she won’t have me in New York at
the last.”

Kara smiled.

“I don’t think you need worry over Lance in relation to Mr. Moore or
me, Dorothy,” Kara returned. “I am the outsider in the group. They
are already great friends and must know each other’s peculiarities.
Besides, Lance is sure to make Mr. Moore proud of him, and the rest of
us as well. Fortunately for me, I shall not have to interfere seriously
with their plans. Mr. Moore has promised to place me in a sanitarium
and then to forget all about me for a time.”

Lance crossed over to the girl’s chair.

They had never been especial friends. In fact, Lance had been a little
embarrassed by Kara’s humor and practical good sense. He had not
cared for any girl as he did his sister Dorothy and, next to Dorothy,
her two friends, Tory Drew and Louise Miller. But now he and Kara
were to be thrown into an unusual and unexpected intimacy. Moreover,
Kara’s present trouble appealed to Lance’s latent chivalry. He was not
possessed of this characteristic in the same degree as Don. Lance had
had too much care taken of him in the past. Nevertheless, he was moved
by Kara’s last speech.

“We shall not leave you anywhere and forget you, Kara. Mr. Moore thinks
of you more than you dream and would do anything in his power to make
up to you for the lost years.”

This time Kara shook her head.

“They were not _lost_ years, not for me, Lance, and assuredly not for
Mr. Moore. I have told all of you a dozen times that I would rather
have been brought up in the orphan asylum which I choose to call by the
dear old title of the ‘Gray House on the Hill’ than as the ward of Mr.
Moore. I am not ungrateful to him, but how would I then have known
Tory and Dorothy and you and Don and Miss Victoria and all my other
friends in Westhaven?”

Lance appeared honestly puzzled.

He could not help believing Kara. She gave one the impression of
absolute sincerity, yet it was difficult for him to accept her point of
view. He would like to have had the advantages that undoubtedly would
have been Kara’s had she occupied the position Mr. Moore would have
given her.

“Never mind, Kara. What I meant was that you can always count upon me
at any time or under any circumstances. If we should be separated in
Europe, all that will ever be necessary is for you to let me know you
want me. I will come to you no matter how long we stay over on the
other side.”

Dorothy slipped down from her perch.

“Don’t be tiresome, Lance. You talk as if you and Kara would be away
years rather than months!” She looked worried and irritated.

Apparently Lance had not heard.

He was standing close beside Donald and had thrown one arm about his
shoulder.

This was once a favorite attitude between the twin brothers, Tory
recalled. They had become less intimate, and this afternoon before
Lance’s departure were both aware of the fact and regretting it. As
usual, expression came more easily to Lance.

“You will look after Dorothy and Tory and Louise and the best beloved
of the Girl Scouts whenever they need help, Don. This goes without
saying, so it is only fair I should try to be useful to Kara once in a
while.

“You are reconciled to my going, aren’t you, Don?”

“Wouldn’t make any difference whether I was or not,” Don answered
ungraciously, yet his blue eyes softened.

The dusk was descending and Lance’s final speech to Kara had added to
Dorothy’s restlessness and discomfort.

“It is time we were saying good-night, Lance; you will wish to tell
Tory good-by.”

The boy crossed over and held out his long-fingered, slender hand.

As Tory’s own fingers closed over it, she had a sensation of being
ashamed of an emotion and of hoping Lance would not guess. She was not
so sorry at his departure as she had thought she would be. Life would
be more peaceful and agreeable at the old McClain house with Lance
away, even if more humdrum. She would have more of Dorothy’s and Don’s
society for herself.

“I do hope you will have great success, Lance, and be a celebrated
musician some day,” she said with all the cordiality she honestly felt
in this connection.

It was the suggestion that always humbled Lance.

“I am afraid that will never be, Tory, but thank you just the same. I
suppose you can’t say you are sorry I am going away.”

Lance’s expression was the quizzical one that the girl often found
annoying. He appeared hurt as well this afternoon.

“Of course I am sorry in a way, Lance,” she answered truthfully enough.
“But realizing how you want to go yourself, isn’t it asking a great
deal to have us feel all the regret? Don’t forget us and Westhaven
while you are gone. Long ago father and I decided never to say good-by
to any one, so good-night and good luck.”



CHAPTER XX

A WEDDING


After the sailing of Kara and Lance, Tory Drew and Dorothy McClain
would have been in truth lonely and depressed save for an approaching
event which promised the keenest pleasure and excitement.

After announcing their engagement, Sheila Mason and Philip Winslow
could find no adequate reason why they should go through the strain
and uncertainties of a long engagement. They therefore concluded to be
married early in the coming June.

The only two persons who might have objected, Sheila’s mother and
father, expressed themselves as well pleased. The years Sheila had
passed mourning for her soldier lover were now over and they were more
than glad to find her happiness restored. The old Sheila had returned
with an added sweetness and depth to her nature.

Another point in hurrying on the ceremony was the fact that the Girl
Scouts might wish to return to their own evergreen cabin in Beechwood
Forest. They were to build a new house that was to be half studio and
half home, along the shores of the Connecticut River, and wished during
the summer months to see it completed.

The house was to be a gift from Sheila’s parents, who had invited the
bride and groom to be with them until the house was finished.

“There is only one thing that makes me object seriously to your
marriage, Sheila,” Tory said one afternoon, speaking in her usual
impulsive and unexpected fashion.

“Sorry, Tory! What is this _one_ thing, by the way?” the Troop Captain
inquired.

She was seated on the small step outside the evergreen cabin on an
early May afternoon, her own Patrol of Girl Scouts surrounding her. Two
or three of the girls had wandered off toward the woods.

Mr. Winslow had gone to New York for the day. The Scouts had been
having their regular meeting at the cabin during his absence. There was
a bare possibility he might return before they went back to the village.

“My _one_ fear,” said Tory, “is you may consider that being married
will interfere with your duties as a Scout Captain. If this is true, I
shall oppose the wedding as much as I have encouraged it in the past.”

The girls laughed. The Troop Captain did not laugh, so that Tory
reached out and caught her hand with a little appeal for pardon.

“Do you know, girls, I don’t take Tory’s impertinent speech in the
fashion that it deserves because I have been thinking of just what her
words imply. Perhaps after I am married I had best resign as your Troop
Captain. In that case you would let me become a member of your Council?”

“Good gracious, no!” Margaret Hale announced decisively. “Yes, I do
mean what I said, and I altogether agree with Tory Drew. If you are
even contemplating ceasing to be our Captain I intend to call a secret,
special meeting of your Girl Scouts to see what we can do to persuade
you to change you mind in two connections: one with regard to marrying
Mr. Winslow, the other with regard to deserting your Troop.”

“Moreover, we shall all utterly decline to be bridesmaids or to permit
you to have a Scout wedding,” Joan Peters interrupted.

Teresa drew closer to the Troop Captain.

“Promise you will never give up your Scouts, not for years and years.
By that time we shall all be marrying too, so that it will not matter.”

The laughter following Teresa’s little speech was not so spontaneous as
usual. Tory Drew, Louise Miller and Dorothy McClain shook their heads
emphatically.

“That day will never come, not for us!” they announced in chorus.

Tory arose.

The afternoon was not especially warm and she had slipped on a green
coat over her Scout costume. Her red-gold hair was uncovered.

“You have _not_ given us your promise yet, Sheila. Formally and in the
name of your Scout Troop of the Eagle’s Wing I ask you to continue to
be our Captain until circumstances make it impossible that you give
us even a measure of your time. No one has appointed me the official
spokesman, but any one who wishes may disagree with me.

“In my humble opinion, you have been the best possible Captain any
group of girls have ever had the good luck to possess. You have been
always one of us, and yet wiser and more just, the dearest kind of a
friend and leader.”

“Bravo, Tory!” half a dozen of the other girls murmured, with a
subdued clapping of hands.

Suddenly they became silent. Sheila Mason had not replied, but instead
had covered her face with her two hands.

An instant later, when Teresa lifted them gently down, the girls were
aware that her eyes had filled with tears.

“I shall continue your Troop Captain as long as you want me. No one and
nothing shall interfere,” she began brokenly, with a little catch in
her clear voice.

“You girls realize I never have believed that I have been able to
accomplish half as much for my Girl Scouts as you have for me. You see,
Tory even induced Mr. Winslow to come to live in Westhaven. It occurred
to me that my marriage might offer you an opportunity to secure some
one you would prefer without wounding my feelings.”

She leaned forward.

“Suppose we talk now of the wedding, if you girls will agree to remove
your opposition. It is wonderful to have your interest and sympathy! I
am to have eight Girl Scout bridesmaids. As Kara is not here to take
her place as a member of our first Patrol, Martha Greaves will be
one of us. What I wanted to ask is: has any one of you thought of a
costume for the bridesmaids on this great occasion?”

Teresa sighed.

“Have we thought of anything else except our costumes? Why, as soon as
I heard you announce your engagement, almost the next minute, before I
knew you dreamed of asking us to play any part in the ceremony, I began
considering what I would like to wear.”

“You mean you thought of yourself and your clothes, Teresa Peterson,
and not of Miss Mason’s happiness?” Louise Miller demanded, annoyed as
she so often was by Teresa’s frivolity and personal vanity.

“Oh, of course,” Teresa answered. Then aware of the slightly amused
and critical atmosphere to which she was accustomed, she added in an
aggrieved fashion: “Of course I wanted Sheila to be happy, but then I
knew she would be. I thought of _her_ wedding dress as well.”

With a gentleness in her manner suggesting sympathy, Miss Mason put
her arm about Teresa. She was especially fond of the girl, of her
soft, dusky beauty, of her childish, pleasure-loving nature. She was
now and then a little afraid that Teresa might not always choose the
right path in spite of her Girl Scout associations. For, although
the other girls were fond of her, with one or two exceptions, no one
of them approved or admired her character or made of her an intimate
friend. She received scant praise or understanding in her own home.
Her parents were plain people who had grown wealthy, but had made few
changes in their method of living. Their home was large but filled with
ugly, almost vulgar furniture which hurt Teresa’s finer sensibilities
without her appreciating the reason. They had a number of younger
children and kept no one to help. Steadfastly, in her own indolent
fashion, Teresa had rebelled against the aid she was called upon to
give. As a member of the Girl Scouts, she had displayed a little keener
interest, but the Troop Captain realized how intensely Teresa disliked
the noise and quarreling and discomfort of her surroundings. Teresa was
not intellectual, she was not energetic or resourceful; yet she often
announced that she wished to get away from home as soon as possible
without any idea of how this was to be accomplished. Certainly she had
no thought of learning to support herself as Louise Miller and Edith
Linder were intending to do.

“I see nothing so reprehensible in Teresa’s remarks,” Miss Mason
interposed reproachfully. “Of course, she must have known I should want
you girls to be my bridesmaids. Well, since you are so formal, has any
one thought of a pretty costume since my invitation? Tory, you are our
artist. Have you an idea to suggest that is the least bit original? Of
course no other wedding could ever have been what mine will be, and yet
there have been other June weddings.”

Tory flushed and laughed.

“I am a worse offender than Teresa. She has confessed; I have not,
and yet I behaved just as she did. I too thought of our bridesmaids’
costumes the afternoon of the engagement. Remember, we were spending
the afternoon here in the cabin and the beechwoods were beginning to
turn faintly green and gold.

“I dreamed then of a green-and-gold wedding. Our dresses and hats to
be of pale green, with wreaths of deeper green and bronze leaves. In
our hands we could carry little branches of beech leaves from our own
forest, with golden roses.”

“Then, Sheila in white would be like summer approaching in white mist.”
Teresa announced. An original flight of fancy was unusual for her.

“I think your idea is lovely, Tory, and it is unique. Suppose we talk
it over again,” Miss Mason answered.

“It is late. We must not stay longer; we have a long walk back to the
village.”

“I thought you wished to see Mr. Winslow before we returned and that we
were waiting for him,” Dorothy McClain remarked in her direct fashion.

The Troop Captain shook her head.

“No--yes--well, of course I should like to see him, but not to the
extent of keeping you girls out of doors later than we should stay.

“Suppose we pack up our possessions and move in regular marching order.
We shall arrive the sooner.”

A half mile away a tall masculine figure joined the little procession.
Side by side with the Troop Captain he led the way back to Westhaven.



CHAPTER XXI

A JUNE DAY


To invite every individual in the village to the marriage of the Girl
Scout Troop Captain and Mr. Winslow was not possible, and yet there
were moments when Mrs. Mason insisted that this appeared to be her
daughter’s idea.

On a June morning at an old stone church in Westhaven, set in a wide
churchyard filled with ancient elm trees, the wedding was to take place.

Upon the day, shortly before the hour set for the ceremony, the Girl
Scout Troop of the Eagle’s Wing, save the original Patrol, who were
to act as bridesmaids, entered the church. They were seated in the
pews toward the front, just behind the family, that had been set aside
especially for them. In less than two years the number of Girl Scouts
in Westhaven had increased to half a dozen patrols.

Not long after, the Boy Scouts of the village followed.

Dressed in their uniforms, later, when the other wedding guests had
assembled, the Scouts formed a conspicuous note of golden brown color
amid the lighter muslins and silks of the women and girls and the
darker clothes of the men.

Ignoring the old difficulties which had so long separated them, Memory
Frean came to the wedding accompanied by Miss Victoria Fenton and Mr.
Richard Fenton. She looked very handsome in a dark-blue chiffon made
over a darker shade of red and with a bunch of red roses at her waist.

Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Hammond motored down from their country place,
bringing Lucy with them. More than ever the little girl looked like a
gorgeous butterfly in a beautiful yellow silk gown, her white leghorn
hat trimmed in a wreath of golden poppies.

Half a dozen children from the Gray House on the Hill, who had been
Sheila Mason’s special friends among the younger group whom Katherine
Moore had once loved and mothered, were also invited.

As a special favor, “Billy Do,” of former days, was asked to sit beside
his once-adored little girl friend, “Lucy Don’t.”

A shy little boy, thin and freckled, Billy had greatly altered in the
past two years. Not the slightest interest did he display in Lucy, who
treated him with unexpected friendliness.

She seemed hurt and puzzled until the ceremony began and then,
girl-like, forgot everything and everybody in the intensity of her
excitement.

Sheila Mason was a typical June bride, fair and sweet, with a dress of
pure white silk covered with a long tulle veil, and her arms filled
with white roses.

The eight bridesmaids had adopted Tory Drew’s suggestion. Their dresses
shaded from palest green to bronze, every tint of the beech leaf from
spring to autumn. Made of tarleton, with several skirts, the uppermost
one of green, the sashes and hats were of bronze. They might have been
spirits from Beechwood Forest save for their very human interest in
themselves, the ceremony, and the great church crowded with their own
and Sheila Mason’s friends.

Save for a dozen old-time acquaintances who had come up from New York,
Mr. Winslow had invited no one. He had no family save a sister, who had
married and lived too far away to be present.

As Tory, with flushed cheeks and wide, dark eyes, listened to the
ever-impressive words of the wedding ceremony, which she actually
was hearing read in church for the first time in her life, she stared
with amazed wonder at her artist friend. Was this the disappointed,
half-embittered man she had met in New York City only a few brief
months before? For the first time Tory was brought face to face with
the change that happiness can bring to a human life.

Two hours later Tory Drew and Dorothy McClain found themselves seated
side by side upon a divan in the corner of the drawing-room of Mr. and
Mrs. Mason’s home.

The bride and groom had departed; only a few guests were still
lingering, the intimate friends of the host and hostess.

The girls appeared weary and dispirited.

Dorothy put out her hand and touched the golden roses in the other
girl’s lap.

“There is something a little depressing about a wedding, isn’t there?
I wonder why? I was cheerful and happy enough this morning. I suppose
it is because things are now over and Sheila and Mr. Winslow no longer
here.”

She appeared uncommonly grave.

“Suppose we make a compact with each other, Tory, to keep the promise
we made the other day, you, Louise, and I, never to marry.”

Laughing, Tory Drew shook her head.

She had removed her hat, and her hair was a beautiful bright red-gold
rising above the pale green of her gown, the stem to some radiant,
gayly-colored flower.

“I don’t consider it wise to make rash compacts. We will keep our word
only if we really wish. But whatever fate overtakes us, remember ‘I am
the master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul.’

“Now suppose we gather up our possessions, say good-by and start for
home.”


THE END



Transcriber’s Note:

The original text, spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been
retained as in the original publication except as follows:

  Page 27
  undertand her uncertainty _changed to_
  understand her uncertainty

  Page 50
  begin the other cermony _changed to_
  begin the other ceremony

  Page 55
  round table made an unforgetable _changed to_
  round table made an unforgettable

  Page 74
  very timid and haltingly _changed to_
  very timid and haltingly.

  Page 76
  Kara’s shook her head with emphasis _changed to_
  Kara shook her head with emphasis

  Page 104
  habits She had revealed _changed to_
  habits. She had revealed

  Page 138
  Louise was nearly aways _changed to_
  Louise was nearly always

  Page 146
  they were never to forget _changed to_
  they were never to forget.

  Page 155
  no one of them if half as _changed to_
  no one of them is half as

  Page 157
  Your are sure to have a letter _changed to_
  You are sure to have a letter





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