Each girl at the camp was expected to make her own bed and keep her
belongings in order. Each one also served her turn in setting tables,
washing dishes, etc. Beyond this there were no obligatory tasks, but all
the girls were working for honours, and most of them were trying to meet
the requirements for higher rank. Some were making their official
dresses. Girls who were skilful with the needle could secure beautiful
and effective results with silks and beads, and of course every girl
wanted a headband of beadwork and a necklace--all except Olga Priest.
Olga was working on a basket of raffia, making it from a design of her
own, when Ellen Grandis, her Guardian, came to her just after Anne
Wentworth and Laura had left the camp.
"I've come to ask your help, Olga," Miss Grandis began.
The girl dropped the basket in her lap, and waited.
Miss Grandis went on, "It is something that will require much patience
and kindness----"
"Then you'd better ask some one else, Miss Grandis. You know that I do
not pretend to be kind," Olga interrupted, not rudely but with finality.
"But you are very patient and persevering, and--I don't know why, but I
have a feeling that you could do more for this one girl than any one
else here could. She is coming to take the only vacant place in our
Camp Fire. Shall I tell you about her, Olga?"
"If you like." The girl's tone was politely indifferent.
With a little sigh Miss Grandis went on, "Her name is Elizabeth Page.
She is about a year younger than you, and she has had a very hard life."
Olga's lips tightened and a shadow swept across her dark eyes.
Miss Grandis continued, "You have superb health--this girl has perhaps
never been really well for a single day. You have a brain and hands that
enable you to accomplish almost what you will. Poor Elizabeth can do so
few things well that she has no confidence in herself: yet I believe she
might do many things if only she could be made to believe in herself a
little. She needs--O, everything that the Camp Fire can do for a girl.
Olga, won't you help us to help her?"
"How can I?" There was no trace of sympathy in the cold voice, and
suddenly the eager hopefulness faded out of Miss Grandis' face.
"How can you indeed, if you do not care. I am afraid I made a mistake in
coming to you, after all," she said sadly. "I'm sorry, Olga--sorry even
more on your account than on Elizabeth's."
With that she rose and went away, and Olga looked after her thoughtfully
for a moment before she took up her work again.
A little later Myra Karr stood looking down at her with a curious
expression in her wide blue eyes.
"I'm--I'm going to walk to Kent's Corners," she announced, with a little
nervous catch in her voice.
"Well, what of it? You've been there before, haven't you?" Olga
retorted.
"Yes, but this time I'm going all _alone_!"
Olga's only reply was a swift mocking smile.
"I _am_--Olga Priest!" repeated Myra, stamping her foot angrily. "You
all think me a coward--I'll just show you!" and with that she whirled
around and marched off, her chin up and her cheeks flushed.
As she passed a group of girls busy over beadwork, one of them called
out, "What's the matter, Bunny?"
Myra paused and faced them. "I'm going to walk to Kent's Corners
_alone_!" she cried defiantly.
A shout of incredulous laughter greeted that.
"Better give it up before you start, Bunny," said one.
Another, with a mischievous laugh, whisked out her handkerchief and in a
flash had twisted it into a rabbit with flopping ears. "Bunny, bunny,
bunny!" she called, making the rabbit hop across her lap.
Myra's blue eyes filled with angry tears. "You're horrid, Louise
Johnson!" she cried out. "You're _all_ horrid. But I'll show you!" and
with a glance that swept the whole laughing group, she threw back her
head and marched on.
The girls looked after her and then at each other.
"Believe she'll really do it?" one questioned doubtfully.
"Not she. Maybe she'll get as far as the village," replied another.
"She'd never dare pass Slabtown alone--never in the world," a third
declared with decision.
"Poor Myra, I'm sorry for her. It must be awful to be scared at
everything as she is!" This from Mary Hastings, a big blonde who did not
know what fear was.
"Bunny certainly is the scariest girl in this camp," laughed Louise
Johnson carelessly. "She's afraid of her own shadow."
"Then she ought to have more credit than the rest of us when she does do
a brave thing," put in little Bess Carroll in her gentle way.
"We'll give her credit all right _if_ she goes to Kent's Corners,"
retorted Louise.
Just then another girl ran up to the group and announced that a
blueberry picnic had been arranged. Somebody had discovered a pasture
where the bushes were loaded with luscious fruit. They would carry
lunch, and bring back enough for a regular blueberry festival.
"All who want to go, get baskets or pails and come on," the girl ended.
In an instant the others were on their feet, work thrown aside, and five
minutes later there was no one but the cook left in the camp.
[Illustration: A group of girls busy over beadwork]
By that time Myra Karr was tramping steadily on towards Kent's Corners.
Scarcely another girl in the camp would have minded that walk, but never
before had she dared to take it alone; now in spite of her nervous
fears, she felt a little thrill of incredulous pride in herself. So many
times she had planned to do this thing, but always before her courage
had failed. Now, now she was really doing it! And if she went all the
way perhaps--O, perhaps the girls would stop calling her Bunny. How she
hated that name! She hurried on, her heart beating hard, her hands
tight-clenched, her eyes fearfully searching the long sunny road before
her and the woods or fields that bordered it. It was not so bad the
first part of the way--the mile and a half to the little village of East
Bassett. To be sure, she had never before been even that far alone, but
she had been many times with other girls. She passed slowly and
lingeringly through the village. Should she turn back now? Before her
flashed the face of Olga with that little cold mocking smile, and she
saw again Louise Johnson hopping her handkerchief rabbit across her lap.
The incredulous laughter with which the others had greeted her
announcement rang still in her ears. She was walking very very slowly,
but--but no, she wouldn't--she _couldn't_ turn back. She forced her
unwilling feet to go on--to go faster, faster until she was almost
running. She was beyond the village now and another mile and a half
would bring her to Slabtown. _Slabtown!_ She had forgotten Slabtown. The
colour died swiftly out of her face as she remembered it now. Even with
a crowd of girls she had never passed the place without a fearful
shrinking, and now alone--_could_ she pass those ugly cabins swarming
with rough, dirty men and slovenly women and rude, staring children? Her
knees trembled under her even at the thought, and her newborn courage
melted like wax. It was no use. She could not do it. She wavered,
stopped, and turned slowly around. As she did so a grey rabbit with a
white tail scurried across the road before her, his ears flattened
against his head and his eyes bulging with terror. The sight of him
suddenly steadied the girl. She stood still looking after the tiny grey
streak flying across a wide green pasture, and a queer crooked smile
was on her trembling lips.
"A bunny--_another_ bunny," she said under her breath, "and just as
scared as I am--at nothing. I won't be a bunny any longer! I won't be
the camp coward--I won't, won't, _won't_!" she cried aloud, and turning,
went on again swiftly with her head lifted. A bit of colour drifted back
to her white cheeks, and her heart stopped its heavy thumping as she
drew a long deep breath. She would not let herself think of Slabtown.
She counted the trees she passed, named the birds that wheeled and
circled about her, even repeated the multiplication table--anything to
keep Slabtown out of her thoughts; but all the while the black dread of
it was there in the back of her mind. When she caught sight of the
sawmill where the Slabtown men earned their bread, her feet began to
drag again.
"I can't--O, I can't!" she sobbed out, two big tears rolling down her
cheeks. Then across her mind flashed a vision of the little cottontail
streaking madly across the road before her, and again some strange new
power within urged her on. She went on slowly, reluctantly, with
dragging feet, but still she went on. There were no men about the place
at this hour--they were at work--but untidy women sat on their doorsteps
or rocked at the windows, and a horde of ragged barefooted children
catching sight of the girl swarmed out into the road to stare at her.
Some begged for pennies, and getting none, yelled after her and threw
stones till she took to her heels and ran "just like the other bunny!"
she told herself in miserable scorn, when once she was safely past the
settlement. Well, there was no other such place to pass, but--she
shivered as she remembered that she must pass this one again on the way
back.
She went on swiftly now with only occasionally a fearful glance on
either side when the road cut through the woods. Once a farmer going by
offered her a ride; but she shook her head and plodded on. It was
half-past eleven when, with a great throb of relief and joy, she came in
sight of the Corners. A few minutes more and she was in the village
street with its homey-looking white houses and flower gardens. She
longed to stop and rest on one of the vine-shaded porches, but she was
too shy to ask permission. At the store she did stop, and rested a few
minutes in one of the battered wooden chairs on the little porch, but it
was sunny and hot there. Now for the first time she thought of lunch,
but she had not a penny with her; she must go hungry until she got back
to camp. A boy came up the steps munching a red apple, his pockets
bulging with others. The storekeeper's little girl ran out on the porch
with a big molasses cooky just out of the oven, and the warm spicy odour
of it made Myra realise how hungry she was. She looked so longingly at
the cooky that the child, seeming to read her thoughts, crowded it all
hastily into her own mouth. Myra laughed a bit at that, and after a
little rest, set off on her return. She was tired and hungry, but a
strange new joy was throbbing at her heart. She had come all the way to
Kent's Corners alone--they _could not call her a coward now_! That
thought more than balanced her weariness and hunger. She had to walk all
the way back--she had to pass Slabtown again. Yes, but now she was not
afraid--_not afraid_! She drew herself up to her slender height, threw
back her head, and laughed aloud in the joy of her deliverance from the
fear that had held her in bondage all her life. She didn't understand in
the least how it had happened, but she knew that at last she was
free--_free_--like the other girls whom she had envied; and dimly she
began to realise that this was a big thing--something that would make
all her life different. She walked as if she were treading on air. The
loneliness of the woods, of the long stretch of empty road, no longer
filled her with trembling terror.
As for the second time she approached Slabtown, her heart began to beat
a little faster, but the newborn courage did not fail her now. She found
herself whistling a gay tune and laughed. Whistling to keep her courage
up? Was that what she was doing? Never mind--the courage _was_ up. The
women still sat on their doorsteps or stared from their windows, but
this time the children did not swarm around her. They stood by the
roadside and stared, but none called after her or followed her. She did
not realise how great was the difference between the girl who now walked
by with shining eyes and lifted head, and the white-faced trembling
little creature with terror writ large in every line of her face and
figure that had scurried by earlier in the day. But the children
realised it. Instinctively now they knew her unafraid, and they did not
venture to badger her. She even smiled and waved her hand to them as she
went by, and at that a youngster of a dozen years suddenly broke out,
"Three cheers fer the girl--now, fellers!" And with the echo of the
shrill response ringing in her ears, Myra passed on, proud and happy as
never before in her life.
All the rest of the way she went with the new happy consciousness making
music in her heart--the consciousness of victory won. The last mile or
two her feet dragged, but it was from weariness and lack of food. As she
drew near the camp her steps quickened, her head went up again, and her
eyes began to shine; but when she came to the white tents, she stood
looking about in blank amazement. There was not a girl anywhere in
sight; even the cook was missing.
Myra stood for a moment wondering where they had all gone; then she
walked slowly across the camp to a hammock swung behind a clump of
low-growing pines. Dropping into the hammock, she tucked a cushion under
her head and, with a long sigh of delicious content and restfulness her
eyes closed and in two minutes she was sound asleep--so sound asleep
that when, an hour later, the girls came straggling back with pails and
baskets full of big luscious berries, the gay cries and laughter and
chatter of many voices did not arouse her.
The girls trooped over to the kitchen and delivered up their spoil to
the cook.
"Now, Katie," cried one, "you must make us some blueberry flapjacks for
supper--lots and lots of 'em, too!"
"And blueberry gingerbread," added another.
"And pies--fat juicy pies," called a third.
"_And_ rolypoly--blueberry rolypoly!" shouted yet another.
The cook, her arms on her hips, stood laughing into the sun-browned
young faces before her.
"Sure ye're not askin' me to make all them things fer ye _to-night_!"
she protested gaily.
"We-ell, not all maybe. We can wait till to-morrow for some of them. But
heaps and heaps of flapjacks, Katie dear, if you love us, and you know
you do," coaxed Louise Johnson.
"Love ye? _Love_ ye, did ye say?" laughed the cook. "Be off wid ye now
an' lave me in pace or ye'll not get a smirch of a flapjack to yer
supper. Shoo!" and she waved them off with her apron.
As the laughing girls turned away from the kitchen, Mary Hastings came
towards them from the other side of the camp.
"What's the matter, Molly? You look as sober as an owl!" cried Louise
who never looked sober.
"It's Myra--she isn't here. Miss Grandis and I have hunted all over the
camp for her," Mary answered. "You know she started for Kent's Corners
before we went berrying."
"So she did," cried another girl, the merriment dying out of her eyes.
"You don't suppose she really went there?"
"Myra Karr--alone--to Kent's Corners? Never in the world," Louise flung
out carelessly. "She's somewhere about. Let's call her." She lifted her
voice and called aloud, "Myra, Myra, My-raa!"
At the call Mrs. Royall came hastily towards them. "Where is Myra?
Didn't she go berrying with us?" she inquired.
"No," Louise explained lightly. "Bunny got her back up this morning and
said she was going alone to Kent's Corners, but of course she didn't.
She's started that stunt half a dozen times and always backed out.
She's just around somewhere."
But Mrs. Royall still looked troubled. "She must be found," she said
with quick decision. "Get the megaphone, Louise, and call her with
that."
Still laughing, Louise obeyed. Her clear voice carried well, and many
keen young ears were strained for the response that did not come. In the
silence that followed a second call, Mrs. Royall spoke to another girl.
"Edith, get your bugle and sound the recall. If that does not bring her,
two of you must hurry over to the farm and harness Billy into the buggy;
and I will drive to Kent's Corners at once."
The girls were no longer laughing. "You don't think anything could have
happened to Myra, Mrs. Royall?" one of them questioned anxiously.
"Almost all of us have walked over there. I went alone and so did Mary."
"I know, but Myra is such a timid little thing. She cannot do what most
of you can."
Edith Rue came running back with her bugle, and in a moment the notes of
the recall floated out on the still summer air. It was a rigid rule of
the camp that the recall should be promptly answered by any girl within
hearing, so when, in the silence that followed, no response was heard,
Mrs. Royall sent the two girls for the horse and buggy.
"Have them here as quickly as possible," she called after them.
Before the messengers were out of sight, however, there was an outcry
behind them.
"Why, there she is! There's Myra now!" and every face turned towards
the small figure coming from the clump of evergreens, her eyes still
half-dazed with sleep.
With an exclamation of relief, Mrs. Royall hurried to meet her.
"Where were you, child? Didn't you hear us calling you?" she asked.
"I--I--no. I heard the recall, and I came--I guess I was asleep,"
stammered Myra bewildered by something tense in the atmosphere, and the
eyes all centred on her.
"Asleep!" echoed Louise Johnson with a chuckle. "What did I tell you,
girls?"
But Mrs. Royall saw that Myra looked pale and tired, and she noticed the
change that came over her face as Louise spoke. A quick wave of colour
swept the pale cheeks and the small head was lifted with an air that was
new and strange--in Myra Karr. Mrs. Royall spoke again, laying her hand
gently on the girl's shoulder.
"Myra, how long have you been asleep? How long have you been back in
camp?"
And Myra answered quietly, but with that new pride in her voice, "It was
quarter of four by the kitchen clock when I came. There was nobody
here--not even Katie----"
"I'd just run out a bit to see if anny of ye was comin'," put in the
cook from the kitchen door where she stood, as much interested as any
one else in what was going on.
"And did you go to Kent's Corners, my dear?" Mrs. Royall questioned
gently.
It was Myra's hour of triumph. She forgot Louise Johnson's mocking
laugh--forgot everything but her beautiful new freedom.
"O, I did--I did, Mrs. Royall!" she cried out. "I was awfully frightened
at first, but coming home I wasn't _one bit afraid_, and, please, you
won't let them call me Bunny any more, will you?"
"No, my child, no. You've won a new name and you shall have it at the
next Council Fire. I'm so glad, Myra!" Mrs. Royall's face was almost as
radiant as the girl's.
It was Louise Johnson who called out, "Three cheers for Myra Karr! She's
a _trump_!"
The cheers were given with a will. Tears filled Myra's eyes, but they
were happy tears, as the girls crowded around her with questions and
exclamations, and Miss Grandis stood with a hand on her shoulder.
"That's what Camp Fire has done for one girl," Mrs. Royall said in a low
tone to Laura Haven. "That child was afraid of the dark, afraid of the
water, afraid to be alone a minute, when she came. It is a great triumph
for her--a great victory."
"Yes," returned Laura thoughtfully, and Anne added,
"You've no idea how lonesome the camp looked when Laura and I came back
and found you all gone. It was so still it seemed almost uncanny. Myra
never would have dared to stay alone here before."