Chapter II: Part 2

"You mean," interrupted Stillwater, lying under a low-spreading apple tree, with a handkerchief spread over his face, "that you like the 'life' at the seashore. There's no affinity between you and the ocean that I know of."

"Well, have it that way, if you will. I like 'the life at the seashore.'"

Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from the red rose which she was embroidering, with a little less energy perhaps, than in the morning. "Particularly, as we are buried alive in the Adirondacks during August, September and October."

"Buried alive?"

"Buried alive!" Mrs. Bunker looked around triumphantly, enjoying the sensation her words had occasioned. Indiana had thrown down her book which she was reading, lying on her back. Glen stopped thrumming pensive snatches of melody. Mrs. Stillwater gave her mother a startled glance and Stillwater threw the handkerchief from his face and raised himself to a sitting posture.

"Well, I never saw such a woman! Buried alive! Buried--why, you have the camp filled with company. Didn't I have to put up tents for them last year; the place looked as if there was an army bivouacing on it--"

"Oh, yes; I can make a good time for myself wherever I am--but when we're alone there--it's so still, I'm afraid of the sound of my own voice, and jump for joy if I see a chipmunk peeping out of its hole. There's something spry about them, at all attempts. The natives would do well to imitate them. Such a slow lot--and those guides with their drawling voices. The world just stops, when you get up to the Adirondacks."

"I'm never so happy," remarked Glen, "as when I'm in the forests and on those lakes. It's the real thing. City life goes against my grain, somehow."

"I always feel quite natural in the woods," said Indiana. "Just as though I belonged there, with the other wild things."

"When did those English friends of yours say they were coming up, grandma?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, in a muffled voice, having again taken shelter under the handkerchief, after recovering from the last of the many shocks he was in the habit of receiving from his mother-in-law.

"They said September, but I have a shrewd idea they'll get tired of travelling before then. They may arrive the latter part of August. They'll be glad to see a little home life once more."

"Friends of yours, Mrs. Bunker?" inquired Glen, with a slight frown.

"Yes; Lord Canning and his uncle, Lord Nelson Stafford. They belong to a representative noble English family. I met them at Cannes last year--"

"Lord Canning is a very distinguished looking gentleman," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"His face inspires trust, if I'm not mistaken," remarked her husband.

"I promised to show him the sights," said Indiana, with a mischievous smile.

"How kind and disinterested of you," remarked Glen, in a very sarcastic voice.

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Indiana.

"I mean you intended to make an impression on him, by the time you were through with the sights," answered Glen, with a pale face.

"And supposing I did," said Indiana, provokingly. "It wouldn't be the first time I have made an impression, nor will it be the last."

"Oh, well, I suppose you must have someone to flirt with," said Glen, resignedly.

"Now, children, don't quarrel! You know what that New York oracle said: 'Rest and quiet.'"

"I never flirted with you," said Indiana.

"I should hope not," answered Glen, in a very dignified manner.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I intend to be taken seriously, or not at all."

They all gasped at this temerity from such an unexpected quarter. Stillwater peeped at Indiana from under the corner of his handkerchief.

"No man has ever yet dictated to me," said Indiana, majestically.

"It's more than I'd do," murmured Stillwater.

"Men are generally only too glad if I will tolerate them on any terms," continued Indiana.

"Well, I'm not like others; but never mind, Indiana--that's true enough--I ought to be glad to be tolerated on any terms." He smiled resignedly around on the circle. He was afraid he had gone too far. At all events, their little skirmishes generally ended this way. Indiana felt a slight misgiving as she took up her book again. Glen, her slave and comrade, was one person, but Glen, who wished to be taken seriously, with a pale set face and glowing eyes, was another.

"What are you making, ma?" inquired Stillwater.

"A little woolen cape, with a darling hood attached, for Indiana. Just to put on her when she's roaming after dinner in the mountains. It's so chilly there, when the sun goes down."

"You're always making something for her," said Stillwater.

"She's the best mother I ever had," remarked Indiana, proudly fingering her little dimity skirt.

Mrs. Stillwater blushed with happiness, and looked with almost tearful love on this child, who showed such unparalleled appreciation of her mother's efforts.

"Sing 'My Georgia Lady Love,' Glen!" said Mrs. Bunker.

Glen struck a few notes on his mandolin and sang in a very pleasing baritone.

"My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen,
How your brown eyes do shine like stars above,
There's not a girl can equal you,
My Georgia Lady Love--Love."

"Kitty, you were never so welcome in your life," said Stillwater, as Kitty appeared with the tea-tray. She was followed by a farm-hand carrying a table and a camp-stool. Mrs. Bunker seated herself, and commenced pouring out the tea.

"Go ahead with the second verse, Glen!"

"One day I said, 'I love you, Sue,
Believe me, gal, I will be true.'
She slowly dropped her head,
And then she softly said:
'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.
My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen."

"There's a circus to-night," volunteered Kitty.

"Circus!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.

"Oh, I want to go," said Indiana.

"Let's stuff the big hay wagon full of straw and pillows," cried Mrs. Bunker. "It's full moon; we'll have a grand ride, eh, Ratio?"

Ratio looked visibly delighted.

"Well, you know what he said, 'Rest and quiet.'"

"Pa, you're forever quoting that old mummy," said Indiana. "He's like the ghost in Hamlet. It's settled; we'll go."

"Well, what's the matter, Kitty? Got anything on your mind?"

"No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited me to the circus, and I'd like to go, if the ladies don't object."

"Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater, with an amiable wave of his hand. Kitty left the orchard in high glee.

"She did well to ask you, instead of me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "That girl's too fond of pleasure."

"Now grandma--we were young ourselves, once."

"Speak for yourself, Ratio. I'm going to the kitchen to make some taffy. There's just enough time for it to cool. We'll take it along and give it to all the youngsters."

"Well, ma, there's a nice breeze blowing, the sun's going down. What do you say to a short spin?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, get ready. I'll have the buckboard here in five minutes." He rose, shaking off the blossoms which powdered his coat like snow.

"There's some on your hair, ma; they're so pretty."

Indiana rose lazily from the grass, also shaking off a shower of blossoms, and leaned against a low-spreading apple tree, extending her arms on the branches each side of her.

Glen gazed at her, still thrumming his mandolin.

"Do you think you'll come to Narragansett with us, this summer?" said Indiana, looking idly up through the branches.

"What for?" said Glen, gloomily. "To see you dance and flirt with a lot of--of simpering idiots."

Indiana laughed. Every time she moved, the blossoms fell upon her shoulders, neck and hair.

"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"

"Not with other men."

"Oh, that's selfish!"

"Maybe," said Glen.

There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.

"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."

Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick shower which followed.

"You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a Dryad--or something."

"Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."

"I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen, watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made for you, with your hair hanging like that--I always liked your hair hanging--do you remember, Indiana?"

"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."

"It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our good times."

"But it wasn't, Glen?"

"No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more--the woman. Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts. You were very apt at that business, for one so young."

"You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."

"That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal maneuvers."

They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.

"I fought shy of you for awhile, then--I was young and unworldly." From Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed the difference in me?"

"Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."

"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."

"That's nonsense! We can't be girl and boy forever. There's something else in life--I suppose."

"What?" said Glen.

"I don't know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it's individual. People must discover it for themselves--"

"Have you?" asked Glen.

"No," answered Indiana.

"I have," said Glen.

"Tell me."

"Not now."

"This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must see the world, must be of the world. I don't believe in a groove."

"Your mother did," said Glen.

"How can you compare me to ma? She's the old-fashioned type, bless her heart!"

"Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what we have. This is one day out of life. There'll never be another like this--not just like this. The blossoms are going--"

"They'll come again, next year," said Indiana.

"Yes, but we may be different, that's the trouble. I'd like to keep this day--everything is so young and tender and spring-like--and you're part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our heads--there's a soft, pink light on the whole orchard--it's shining down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an artist--the best in the world--living hereabouts. I'd jump on my wheel, and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it would be even too late--to catch this light. I'd have him paint the whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms--that glow on your face. I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"

**

"And you, Glen? You wouldn't be in it at all."

"I'd own the picture," said Glen.

A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away.

"The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do with yourself this summer, if you don't go with us to Narragansett?"

"I'll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I'll join you on our old hunting grounds--if you want me--"

"Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren't there."

Glen smiled gratefully.

"How are the folks?"

"Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."

"I'll ride over there to-morrow."

"They'll be glad to see you. They love you just--just like a daughter."

"I like people to love me," said Indiana.

"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard.

"Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!' He didn't make allowances for a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn't think it was going to be such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they laid the mandolin down on the grass.

"Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply.

"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."

"I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously.

"I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.

"Not now; but don't you think you could?"

"No, Glen."

"Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love me--"

"Glen, it's no use--I've known you too long."

"Indiana, you don't know what you're saying--you're killing me, Indiana!"

"Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly.

"Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana--you're the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language--the greatest ever written--it would be mere print, wouldn't it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; _don't you understand_?"

"Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You're too much a part of the old life--"

"The old life, Indiana? Isn't that the best life?"

"Not for me."

"You don't know what you're saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad."

"You're a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!"

"Won't you think about it, Indiana?"

"No, dear! I hate to say it--but I want to be straight with you. Something tells me it's not the right thing for us to marry. Don't say any more--don't try to persuade me--it's no use."

"All right, Indiana."

"Don't look like that, Glen! you'll break my heart. Life isn't over for you, because--of this. It's a beautiful world still--look at the blossoms, look at the day!"

"It's not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It'll never be the same."

"Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don't want to lose you, Glen; you'll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"

"Do you remember when I went to the war, Indiana? You gave me a lock of your hair, and I carried it over my heart. It was a charm, a little yellow lock--it brought me back to you alive. You cried when you gave it to me, and said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"

"And I say it now! Wherever we both happen to be, until I die, 'God keep you, Glen!'" She broke down, and sobbed on his breast.

He smoothed her hair mechanically, murmuring, "A little yellow lock--I carried it over my heart, always. They might have found it if I hadn't come back. I wish that I hadn't, now--I wish that I hadn't!"

"Glen! What are you saying?" She held her hand over his mouth. "We'll go on just the same; you mustn't say anything to the others. We'll keep our own secret, and you'll come to the camp this August?"

"It'll never be the same," repeated Glen, monotonously.

Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting to Jim Tuttle.

"I must be getting home," said Glen stupidly, like a person just awakened from sleep.

"Why, aren't you going to the circus, Glen?"

"Circus?"

"Don't break up the party!"

"All right, Indiana."

It was not a merry circus party, as far as the younger members were concerned, but the others were lively, and failed to see anything strange in their behaviour. Indiana asked someone to dare her to jump down in the ring, and ride better than the lady equestrian, but they all wisely refrained from doing so. Glen sat in the center of the wagon and tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the amusement of the party. They dropped him at his own gate, to which they drove, singing hilariously, Kitty bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim Tuttle.

"Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called a voice from one of the farm-house windows.

"It's father," said Glen.

"Hello, Masters!"

"Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"

"Well, I don't believe in too much of a good thing; good-night."

"Good-night; good luck to you all."

"Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.

Glen leaned against the gate after they had gone, listening to their voices in the distance.

"Have a good time, Glen?"

"Yes, father!"

The window closed. Glen laughed bitterly, leaning against the gate; then the laugh changed to a sob.

"I don't want much, I ask so little, dear God; _only Indiana_."

*CHAPTER V.*

*Camp Indiana.*

"I'm tired of the model farm. I wouldn't care to spend another spring here."

"Indiana, your love of change will bode you no good, some day."

"I come by it honestly, Grandma Chazy--you're always on the go."

"Don't compare yourself to me, Indiana. I'm an old woman."

"You'd be hopping mad, if anyone else called you that."

"I can take a privilege which I wouldn't allow to others," said Mrs. Bunker, sweetly. "I mean I'm an old woman compared to you, Indiana; I have experience and discretion, to back up my roving spirit."

"Em--n!" said Indiana.

She was lying on a nest of pillows, reading, surrounded by dormer windows, in one of the upper rooms of the farm-house.

"Look at pa out there in the rain with his rubber coat and hat. He's a sight! Wonder if Glen will be over to-day."

"Appears to me, you're always looking for Glen."

"There's no one else to look for, here, is there?"

"Girls your age generally do attach themselves to the man who's around."

"I'm no more attached to Glen than I ever was. Everybody likes him. He's a good fellow."

"That's true. Do you think you'll marry him?"

"What's your opinion on that matter, Grandma Chazy?"

"I think you'd regret it all your life; he's only a boy."

"Yes, but he's a good fellow."

"You said that before."

Glen had kept away for a week or so after the moonlight circus party, and in that time became morbid and melancholy. Indiana dominated him completely. He racked his brain, hour after hour, trying to remember the exact words in which she had uttered such and such a remark, with her exact tone of voice and the exact expression of her eyes at the time. Sometimes in his sleep he heard her calling "Glen dear! Glen dear! Glen dear!" her childish name for him, in a helpless, frightened voice. He would awaken with a terrible fear that she might be ill or in trouble. Compared with this awful anxiety oppressing him in the night, his past misery seemed nothing. He resolved that if Indiana only kept well and happy he would ask nothing more of life. Again, he heard her laughing in his dreams, mockingly, tantalizingly; laughing, laughing, laughing, until his brain reeled, and he thought, "This is the laugh that drives men mad." Then, when taking bicycle rides on the moonlight nights of his week's absence, her face seemed to flash upon him suddenly in dark places, like that of a sweet ghost. Haunted like this, the idea of seeing her in reality once more was like the conventional promise of Heaven. He resolved to resume their old footing. "Indiana wishes it, and anything is better than not to see her." He appeared again at the model farm, humble and deferential to Indiana's slightest wish, grateful for her every look and word. With her tender heart and warm sympathies she pitied him intensely. She tried to establish their old comradeship. The loyal little soul hated to lose a friend.

Glen felt life was worth living once more. There is a magic flower, tiny, and blue as the sky. This is the forget-me-not bloom of hope. It sheds a sweet and subtle fragrance which enchants the soul, and charms the eyes, so that they see a wonderful light on all things. But when the flower perishes, there is an end to the spell. The glamour fades before the eyes, the soul is seized with an aching grief. But the witch-flower of hope will bloom again, if it is not plucked by the root.

"I'm getting a little bit tired of it myself, here," remarked Mrs. Bunker. "Well, it'll be time to pack up soon; I expect to enjoy myself this summer."

Indiana, watching the rain, forebore to answer. There were times when Mrs. Bunker's constant desire for pleasure rather palled on her.

Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside resort proved to be merely a repetition of other summers. Indiana enjoyed herself, after the manner of the young and thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting, and laughing. But after the glare of the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on the shore, after falling asleep every night to the echoes of the very latest dance music, mingled with the eternal dash of the waves, the woods beckoned her invitingly.

It was the middle of August before the Stillwater's were installed in the mountains. They arrived at the primitive station early in the morning, and were met by one of the two guides yearly engaged for the season. There was a large mountain wagon, without a cover, awaiting them, and a pair of fresh-looking ponies. Indiana jumped up nimbly, and took the reins, while Haller, the guide, packed in the rest of the family and Kitty, all looking rather sleepy, from their all-night travel. The other servants had preceded them by some days.

"All right!" shouted Indiana, starting at a brisk trot. It was only twenty minutes' drive from the station to a landing, where they were met by a trim little naptha launch with "The Indiana" painted newly, in bright letters, upon the prow. She puffed slowly up one of the largest lakes in the Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the mountains. The latter are higher in this particular region, the scenery wilder than elsewhere. Nature had designed a beautiful color scheme from the lake; the rich, vivid green of the banks, fretted with enormous rocks and crags, the darker background of the immediate mountains, in their funereal dress of pine and balsam, and beyond the pale tracery of the distant ranges. It was a dull morning, and the grey atmosphere gave a touch of desolation to the wild environment of the lake.

"It's lonesome as the grave," said Mrs. Bunker. "Throw me that cape, please, Mr. Haller. I'm chilly."

"Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain contortion of his serious face, which was intended for a smile. "Waal, 'tis cool, mornin's."

"How are the evenings? Cold, I suppose?"

Haller cogitated for the space of five minutes. No one answers a question thoughtlessly in these regions; and after sojourning there some time, one learns not to interrogate at random. "Waal," he said at length, "'tis cool evenin's."

"None of the leaves have changed yet," said Indiana, after closely inspecting the banks on either side.

"No; they ain't changin'. Waal, thar's bin no frost, ter speak of--thar's bin no frost, ter speak of."

"Is it going to storm?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a heavy plaid shawl wrapped about her.

Haller looked at the sky. "Waal, not yet awhile."

"Indiana, your hat!" cried Mrs. Bunker. A gust of wind had torn it off her head. Haller deftly rescued it from the lake and restored it to Indiana in a dripping condition. She sat bare-headed, enjoying the outlook, the moist wind blowing her hair in large rings around her face.

"We're in for it," said Mrs. Bunker. When they started, the lake had been grey and calm. Now, it was gradually darkening, and dotted here and there with white-caps.

"Are yer skeert?" said Haller, looking at Mrs. Bunker with one of his contortions.

"No," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "but I want to get to the camp."

"Waal, we're goin' there," said Haller, calmly.

In a little while they came in sight of the boat-house, elaborately rustic, and pretty in design. Near it was planted an enormous flag-staff, from which waved a white flag bearing the name "Camp Indiana" in red letters.

Camp Indiana, christened after the only daughter of the owner, was the usual log structure, but capacious in dimensions, with a luxurious interior. There were many adjuncts in the way of out-buildings and summer-houses, glimpses of which could be caught between the trees. The camp owed much to art, but rejoiced in one supreme, natural beauty. This was a giant balsam tree which Stillwater could not bring himself to cut, and, therefore, had been used in the construction of the camp itself. The huge trunk supported the balcony, and the lower branches were entwined in the rustic railing. Thence it rose, screening the front windows up to the very roof, above which it towered paternally. Birds innumerable made their homes in the branches, and chipmunks in the moss-covered trunk. Every summer the little creatures ran nimbly along the lower limbs, peeping curiously at the sharers of their home; and young birds, essaying to fly, met with mishaps and fell into the camp with broken wings and legs. The latter were a great solicitude to Indiana. She nursed them carefully, with a knowledge founded on similar cases in the Rocky Mountains. There, she had gained much experience with birds and animals.

Though it was blowing strongly on the lake, there was no wind at the camp. No matter how the elements rage, there is quiet among the trees, except for a sighing whisper, to which one could fall asleep.

"Em--n!" said Mrs. Bunker, taking a survey when she reached the balcony. "Enough to give one the blues."

There was a huge deer-head over the entrance, a trophy of Stillwater's first year in the Adirondacks. The large hall was decorated with many other trophies from the Rocky Mountains and elsewhere. Wild skins of every description strewed the polished floors throughout the camp. Logs crackled brightly in the great, deep fire-place of the hall, as they entered, emitting an odor of pine. The large, brown eyes of an elk gazed beneath the branching antlers mildly down on the fire. A short, wide flight of stairs was broken by a balcony over the hall. From the railing hung an antique, Persian silk rug, upon which the fire played richly. Beneath the stair-case and each side of the fire-place were deep niches, comfortably furnished with pillows, of which red was the prevailing tone. Graceful jars of old pottery decorated the shelves above, with here and there a brilliant cluster of peacock's feathers, or the rich plumage of a stuffed bird, to relieve the dullness of the clay. This decoration was repeated in all the lower rooms, of which there were many, one opening into the other, giving a vista of fire-lit interiors, the flames catching an occasional flash of color from a red pillow or an Oriental scarf hanging carelessly from a shelf. The camp resounded to the crackling of logs with the accompanying, healthy perfume of the burning pine. Indiana ran through all the rooms, looking out of every window upon the lake. Those of her own room opened directly into the balsam tree which ornamented the front of the camp. This room had been built entirely of white maple. There was simple furniture of the same wood. The gleaming white walls and ceiling served as a background for a continuous Bacchanalian dance of shadows, cast by the branches of the giant balsam screening the windows. Here, also, logs crackled cheerily in a deep, wide fireplace, tiled with white onyx, which reflected the flames in fitful opaline gleams. White bear rugs strewed the floor. Indiana, as she looked around her, had visions of frosty, October mornings, when she had put her feet unwillingly out of bed into the warm fur, and hopped over the intervening space of cold floor to the fire. She remembered awakings, when a breath of balsam air swept like a cool hand across her forehead. Open windows and fires were Mr. Stillwater's strict injunctions at the camp. Indiana, for one, obeyed him. She had often opened her eyes to see a chipmunk sitting on its haunches, regarding her curiously. And birds were in the habit of flying around her little nest and out again to their own nest in the tree. She stood for a moment by the fire with a sense of glad content to be once more in this white, balsam-scented room. Then she ran into her mother's room, and into that reserved for Glen. On the mantel were portraits of his mother and father. They had insisted on his leaving some of his belongings there last year, saying that if he did so, he would be sure to come again. Indiana inspected the portraits. "I'm glad they're here," she thought. "It'll be a welcome for him."

Mrs. Bunker stood warming her hands by the hall fire. "The dampness isn't off the rooms yet."

"They've bin closed s'long, yer see," said Haller, lighting his pipe in the doorway. "Waal, I opened up everything, lettin' in the sun, soon as I knowed yer was comin'."

"Now that he's lit his pipe," thought Mrs. Bunker, "it won't go out while we're here."

He stalked leisurely through the rooms, throwing a fresh log on every fire, and looking about proudly, as though he could well be congratulated upon his preparations.

"Everything looks very nice, Henry," said Mrs. Stillwater, "just as if we left yesterday."

Another pipe saluted Mrs. Bunker at the entrance. It belonged to the second guide, who was somewhat brisker in appearance than Haller.

"Waal, haow d'ye find things lookin', ma'am?" he said, with a cheery laugh.

"They're looking all right, William," answered Mrs. Bunker, graciously. She liked him better than Haller, who had an irritating effect on her.

"Will it be a good season for deer?" said Indiana, running down the stairs.

William puffed slowly and seriously.

"It's going ter be a good season for deer," he said.

"Oh, I hope so," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker. "I promised those Englishmen good hunting."

"If they come, there'll be good hunting, Grandma Chazy," said Indiana, moving close to her, and looking significantly into her eyes. Mrs. Bunker laughed vivaciously.

"Ther' comin' down ter drink," volunteered William.

"Already!" exclaimed Indiana, with a laughing glance at Mrs. Bunker.

"Waal, thar' ain't bin no rain ter speak of--the springs is dryin' up on the mauntings."

"Y--es!" corroborated Haller, joining them with Mrs. Stillwater. "Ther comin' down ter the lakes."

"Poor things!" said Mrs. Stillwater.

"Do you pity them, Grandma Chazy?" whispered Indiana, "I don't mean the deer."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker. "Wholesale slaughter isn't the word."

Glen joined them soon after their arrival, but not before Indiana had written him a special letter inviting him to come. He had a certain pride where she was concerned. They roamed the woods together, renewing acquaintance with all their old haunts, or rowed and fished on the lake for hours with Haller and William. Mrs. Bunker and her daughter did not share their enthusiasm for these sports. They enjoyed the lake only in pleasant weather, when they made trips in "The Indiana" with a guide. Sometimes they were met at the landing by the comfortable and airy mountain wagon and the fresh mountain ponies, to take them for one of the beautiful drives in which that county abounded. Occasionally, Indiana and Glen would join them, changing off with the reins.

"I'd like to write to the Smiths," said Mrs. Bunker, one morning. "I promised to invite them up here. But you're so half-hearted about it, Indiana. All you care for is to roam about with Glen." She was standing on the balcony of the boat-house, and did not see Glen below on the dock. He smiled grimly.

"I can't blame her for one, Mrs. Bunker," he called up, good humoredly.

Indiana laughed. She was sitting in a boat. After having assumed several positions in order to ship water, she was now very busy bailing it out with a large sponge.

"No offense, Glen," said Mrs. Bunker.

"None whatever," returned Glen, emerging, and bowing elaborately.

"The two of you are like a couple of Indians," she continued.

"Here's Haller with the mail," cried Indiana. He rowed swiftly towards them in a light, narrow guide-boat. Indiana took the letters.

"I brought a letter for yer," shouted Haller to Mrs. Bunker.

"Then why didn't you deliver it?" answered Mrs. Bunker sharply.

"_She_ tuk it," he answered, chuckling.

Indiana stood up in the boat, balancing herself admirably, and flung the letter to Mrs. Bunker, then sat down examining the other letters and papers in her lap.

"Nothing for you, Glen."

He overturned a boat and seated himself upon it, smoking a pipe. Naturally dark, he was burnt several shades darker, from his hair to the loose, open collar of his flannel shirt.

"You're sitting right in the water, Indiana. Your feet must be soaking wet. Your mother ought to see you."

Indiana looked at him with a laugh. He remembered her blue eyes had given him that same arch glance as a child, when he had discovered her in some act of mischief.

"You always liked to put your feet in the puddles," he said.

"Yes, I always had a passion for puddles. As Grandma Chazy would say, 'it'll bode me no good, some day.'"

"It's from Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker.

"Indeed!" said Indiana, affecting an English accent.

"They'll be with us in a few days, Indiana."

"Charmed!" said Indiana, standing up in the boat, and screwing up her face in imitation of Lord Stafford with his monocle.

Glen laughed heartily at the expense of Mrs. Bunker's English friends.

"That's great, Indiana."

"You little rogue," cried Mrs. Bunker, "I won't have you ridicule my friends. Oh, I'm so delighted. You'll find them lovely company."

"Ya--a--as," drawled Indiana, with a bored expression, "delighted, I'm--" the rest was finished in the water, the boat capsizing suddenly. Indiana was near enough to the dock to throw out an arm to Glen, and he drew her up laughing, but drenched.

"I knew you'd do it, Indiana," cried Mrs. Bunker.

Indiana, still clinging to Glen, as the dock was slippery, smiled faintly, putting her hand to her side.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you, Indiana?" said Glen, anxiously.

"I twisted my side a little--I wanted to save myself, as I fell--that's all."

"What did she do, Glen?" called Mrs. Bunker.

Glen lifted her up in his arms, and carried her up to the camp.

"It was a punishment for making fun of people, wasn't it, Glen?" she said, lifting her little wet face from his breast. "Serves me right, don't it, Glen?"

"No, dear," he said, tenderly.

She tightened her arms about his neck. "You always took care of me, Glen," she said, childishly. His heart beat violently against the little soaking bundle. It was on his lips to say, "I always will, if you'll only let me, Indiana." But he refrained. Still, as he climbed, he felt he was mounting the goal where his heart could rest.

Mrs. Stillwater ran anxiously to meet them.

"It's nothing, Mary," cried Mrs. Bunker, "she was cutting up some of her pranks, and fell into the water."

"Just rub her side," said Glen, delivering his burden, "she sprained it a little, falling, and put some dry clothes on her. You feel all right, don't you, Indiana?"

"Yes, Glen; thank you," said Indiana, meekly.

Mrs. Bunker often remarked, "Indiana's always good, when she's sick."

"Now, Indiana," said that lady, after her granddaughter had been duly dried and dressed. "Shall I read you the rest of the letter?"

"Yes," said Indiana, lying on a couch before the fire.

"'We have enjoyed our tour exceedingly. My nephew has accumulated much information which will prove of scientific value--'"

"Oh, he's that sort, is he?" said Glen, who was seated in a niche by the fire. He rose, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and sauntered out on the balcony.

"Jealous already!" said Mrs. Bunker. Indiana laughed, looking into the fire.

"Go on with the letter, Grandma Chazy."

Glen looked up into the giant balsam. A chipmunk sat on one of the branches, watching him. It was one which he and Indiana had succeeded in making quite tame. He searched in his pocket for a nut. "Chip, chip, chip!" he called, holding out his hand. Indiana's words echoed in his ears. "You always took care of me, Glen," with all the innocent trust that they conveyed. "She's known me all her life," he thought, "there's no going against that. Now these Englishmen will come and spoil everything." He puffed savagely on his pipe, still holding out the nut to the chipmunk, who approached nearer and nearer. "I'll have to take a back seat, now, I suppose. I guess I'll get out of the way, altogether, for a little while. That'll suit me better." He caught sight of Haller, below, planting ferns. "Halloa!" he called.

Haller regarded him interrogatively.

"Any guides at liberty?"

Haller pulled thoughtfully on his pipe. Meanwhile the chipmunk grabbed the nut, and disappeared.

"Little rascal," said Glen.

"Thar's Burt."

"Tell him I want him for a week or two."

The morning of the day when Mrs. Bunker expected her guests, Glen signified his intention of a temporary departure.

"Why, you are not going to leave us, Glen?" asked Mrs. Stillwater, innocently.

"Oh, I'm just going off for a little sport."

"And when will you be back, Glen?"

"Oh, I'll be back in a week or so."

"I think it's real mean of you, Glen," said Indiana, pouting, "just as we're expecting company, and men, too--and Pa isn't here."

"Oh, there won't be any deficiency. Mrs. Bunker will see to that."

"You're right! There won't be any deficiency," and she added sweetly, "though I don't like to see you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bunker. Here's Burt for me, now." Burt was a blonde, stalwart young fellow, about Glen's own age. He rowed swiftly toward the boat-house, smoking the inevitable pipe. When he landed, he strapped one of those deep baskets the guides carry for provisions, on his back, and climbed up to the camp. Mrs. Stillwater hurried down to the kitchen, to assure herself that Glen was well provided for on his trip.

They all descended to the lake to see him go. When Indiana saw the accoutrements for departure; the fishing tackle, guns, and tent rigging, she commenced to envy the two young fellows going off together, and felt rather ill used to be left behind, to do the tame work of entertaining. Glen read her face, and was inwardly delighted.

"We're going to have a rare, good time, Indiana."

"I believe you," said Indiana, ruefully.

"Do you think there'll be enough provisions, Glen?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, anxiously.

Glen laughed. The laugh was echoed by Haller and William, who were assisting in the ceremony of seeing the young men off.

"We'll have plenty of game, and Burt's as fine as any French cook."

Burt took his pipe from his mouth with a flattered smile and a blush. He was as shy as some young girls.

"We'll feed on the delicacies of the season. And there's the canned stuff, which we'll reserve for emergencies." He grasped Mrs. Stillwater's hand.

"Don't you be afraid, Mrs. Stillwater. We won't starve."

"Oh, he won't starve, ma'am. I'll see to that," said Burt.

"When we're hungry, we'll come home." They both laughed heartily.

"Do you think there'll be good sport, Burt?" said Indiana.

Burt, sitting in the boat, arranging his paraphernalia, looked at her admiringly.

"There'll be sport," he replied.

"Oh, Glen; are you going to take your mandolin?"

"Why not? It'll cheer us up nights, by the fire."

Burt grinned in visible delight.

"Well, I won't say good-bye for such a short time." He shook them all by the hand. "Take care of yourselves."

"Good-bye, Glen--no, I won't say good-bye. I hope you'll have a good time, and come home safe."

"Thank you, Indiana." He waved his hat to all and jumped into the boat. Haller pushed them off.

Indiana ran down to the end of the dock and threw her arms out to Glen. "Oh, take me along!"

Burt stopped rowing.

"All right," said Glen, "there's room for you; will you come?"

"Yes," said Indiana.

"We'll take care of her, Mrs. Stillwater; won't we, Burt?"

"Why, of course," said Burt. "She won't starve--I'll see to that."

"Be off, the pair of you!" cried Mrs. Bunker. Burt took the oars again, laughing, while Glen flourished his cap, looking at Indiana, and Haller and William shouted sportsman's jokes from the shore.

"There they go," said Indiana, waving her handkerchief. She then sat down on the dock, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller. The strains of the mandolin floated to them over the water.

"Indiana, you look as though you hadn't a friend left. If I thought as much of a person as that, I wouldn't let him out of my sight."

"Well, Grandma Chazy, Glen's my best friend."

"And look at your mother! She's actually crying."

"Well, I hated to see him going off like that--I--I'm so fond of him."

"Ma's a good soul," cried Indiana, jumping up and throwing herself into Mrs. Stillwater's arms. "Yes, she is."

"Well, I am not disputing that, Indiana."

"He was so set on going," said Mrs. Stillwater, holding Indiana to her. "I think it was because of those Englishmen. He don't like strangers."

"A pity about him," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply. "Does he want to monopolize Indiana altogether? He went because he might be of some use for once. He could have livened things up a little nights with his mandolin, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so. Well, I'm just as well pleased. He might have been unmannerly or bearish."

"Not Glen!" said Indiana.

"Oh, _Glen_," repeated Mrs. Bunker, imitating her. Haller, who was washing out "The Indiana" and observing at the same time, gave vent to a long guffaw. Mrs. Bunker looked at him crossly. "I can't bear that Haller," she said, as they climbed up to the camp. "He's always making faces at me."

"When you think he's making faces, he's only smiling, I tell you," said Indiana. "He's a fine guide; what more do you want?"

"Wear your red dress to-night, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, ignoring this last remark.

"I think white is so much prettier for a young girl," suggested Mrs. Stillwater.

"Yes, that's the conventional thing," said Mrs. Bunker. "Well, let her look like a bread and butter miss--I have no objection."

"I don't want to look like a bread and butter miss," interrupted Indiana.

"Wear what your mother wishes, Indiana."

"Oh, I'm satisfied with anything," apologetically murmured Mrs. Stillwater. "Let the child please herself." She looked questioningly at her daughter. The latter, looking very self-important, declined to commit herself just then.

"Take your finger out of your mouth, Indiana," said Mrs. Bunker, sharply. "It's time you stopped that baby habit."

Indiana, whenever she was making a decision of any kind, still put her finger in her mouth as a help to thought.

Later, in her granddaughter's room, Mrs. Bunker said in the voice of an oracle. "Take my advice and wear your red silk, Indiana."

"He won't think it's loud?" asked Indiana.

"You're too much of a child to look loud in anything. But it will be so effective and a little audacious. That's what takes. He'll be sure to _see_ you in that dress." And, as she went, she fired a last injunction, "wear your red silk; it'll hit him right in the eye."

*CHAPTER VI.*

*Guests*

Meanwhile the travellers were approaching their destination. They had compared the Hudson River with the Thames and the Rhine, and were now watching the forest tracts and the streams choked with logs awaiting the elements.

"Uncle Nelson," said Lord Canning, "this is the first time in my rememberance that I have visited people I did not know well, in a country I have never seen."

Lord Stafford glanced sleepily at his nephew from under his tweed travelling cap. They were in the smoking car. "There's a charm about everything fresh and new," he murmured. "That's what you're always saying, Thurston."

"There certainly is," said the other, eagerly. "I realize it in this fresh, young, healthy country. It has given me many new sensations. I felt quite old when I first came here--"

"Old!" repeated Lord Stafford. "You?"

"Just turned forty, my hair commencing to grey." Lord Canning laughed, and then sighed. "Yes," he continued, smoking thoughtfully, "there is nothing like fresh scenes. They give new food for the mind--another impetus to life--a man like myself needs such a stimulus--if I should continue to rust in England, I would shortly become--antiquated. Do you notice that the trees are for the most part conical in shape, Uncle Nelson?"

"You always were a restless character, Thurston."

"Nature designed me for an explorer."

"You'll never be satisfied until you undertake that expedition to the pole--"

"Never--unless--"

"Unless what?"

"A new interest should arise in my life--necessarily something very absorbing."

"I know of nothing, except--perhaps--a woman. And as for that, every mamma in England has despaired of you."

Lord Canning laughed heartily, and his uncle yawned and closed his eyes, considering he had satisfactorily disposed of the subject.

"We are strangers to our host," recommenced Lord Canning, after a short survey of the vanishing prospect. "The invitation was necessarily off-hand, but very hearty."

"They do everything in an off-hand way, over here," said Lord Stafford, "at least, so it seems to me."

"We have been travelling too much to judge very correctly of manners and customs," answered his nephew. "And have we met the entire family?"

"I believe so."

"Mrs. Bunker--"

"Mrs. Bunker!" exclaimed Lord Stafford, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Isn't she a lively woman?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater and daughter."

"The little girl," said Lord Stafford, sinking back on the cushions, "the little, blonde girl, who had plenty to say for herself."

"She did not really say so much," returned Lord Canning, taking out another cigar. "It was how she said it."

"Well, she conveyed the impression that she was not backward," remarked Lord Stafford.

"By the way, Uncle," the younger man lit his cigar, laughing amusedly. "Did I ever tell you of a peculiar dream I once had?"

"Dream?"

"About Miss Stillwater."

"Have you been dreaming about that little girl?"

"Didn't I tell you? I thought I had."

"Ha, ha, ha! You've been dreaming about little Miss Stillwater--that's rich."

"Well, wait until you hear it. Then you'll have good reason to laugh. It was quite too absurd."

"Well."

"The night before we started for the West--the night we met Mrs. Bunker at the Waldorf Hotel, in New York--"

"Mrs. Bunker--one never knows what that woman is going to say next--she is so--"

"She introduced us to the family, and Miss Stillwater and I had some conversation--not much, but quite enough, as you will see--about bears."

"Bears?"

"She had been used to shooting them, in the Rocky Mountains."

"The little girl--the blonde one?"

"The little blonde one," repeated Lord Canning, with a softer intonation. "Well, I dreamt I saw her riding on the back of a grizzly, over the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains. She was in full evening dress, and on seeing me, she hilariously waved a bunch of hyacinths--she carried those flowers the night I met her."

"Mrs. Bunker had carnations--I took one--ha, ha, ha!"

"I was on my knees examining strata. When I saw the lady riding towards me, I rose and bowed profoundly. But she returned my polite salute by throwing her bouquet directly in my face--I felt the blow, I smelt the hyacinths--then I awoke--before the lady apologized, allowing that she had that intention. It was all so absurd and incongruous, and yet so distinct. Miss Stillwater looked as natural as life, and sat the bear in such a graceful fashion--she might have been riding a finely bred horse in Hyde Park."

Lord Stafford, listening with closed eyes, made an articulate noise. Whether it was expressive of wonder, disbelief, or ridicule, it was difficult to say.

"But what I consider most remarkable, is that I saw the Rockies very much as I saw them in reality, later on. I explain this on the score of--suggestion. Miss Stillwater has spent some time in the Rockies. Naturally, our conversation recalled them to her mind, and she, of course, unconsciously suggested them to me. It was quite--psychic."

"Nightmare," murmured Lord Stafford, sleepily, "what did you eat for supper?"

"I don't know," said Lord Canning, disgustedly. "Don't attribute everything to what one eats."

"You will, when you're my age. Now it's 'suggestion', and 'quite psychic.' If that little, dainty, yellow-haired Miss Assurance had been an unattractive, elderly person, she wouldn't have suggested a pin's worth to you--beyond the fact that she was ugly. I must say, I never heard you go on like that before, Thurston."

"Go on like _what_?"

"Oh, about your dreams. Only old women tell their dreams. Ha, ha, ha!"

"You are quite mistaken, Uncle Nelson, dreams have been made the subject of scientific research."

"Oh, poppycock! You'll be telling fortunes in a tea cup next, ha, ha, ha!"

"I am glad you are amused, Uncle Nelson."

"I am--it's rich--ha, ha, ha, ha!--Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thurston, will you oblige me, and tell when there's anything to look at beside these interminable forests? I'm going to nap a little."

Lord Canning resumed his watch at the window. "Beautiful forests," he thought, "for the most part untouched and untrammelled. We seem to be plunging deeper and deeper into a virgin region. I feel strangely expectant, as though something were awaiting me there. Something that I have hitherto missed in my life--my sober, colorless life--awaiting me there. If I should tell Uncle Nelson this, he would ask me what I had eaten for lunch."

In a little while he became conscious that the train was slackening speed and felt the exhilaration, of most people, at the idea of being transported higher than the ordinary level.

"Uncle Nelson!"

"Yes."

"There is something else."

"What?"

"Clouds--ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Lord Stafford looked disgustedly out at the scurrying white masses.

"Do you want h'anything, your Lordship?"

"It's about time you showed up, Flash. Unstrap that plaid--it's beastly cold."

"It h'is, your Lordship--compared to the 'eat in New York," carefully tucking Lord Stafford into the plaid. Flash was a young fellow, of the ordinary English cockney type.

The train labored on painfully up into the heart of the mountains. Lord Stafford slept while his nephew smoked and mused, watching the clouds, barely perceptible now in the fading light.

They felt a jerk, the train stopped suddenly. Flash put his head in, "We're a h'our and a 'alf late, your Lordship. We won't h'arrive until h'eight o'clock."

"What an infernal nuisance."

"H'any h'orders, your Lordship?"

"Get out!"

When they finally arrived it was pitch black night, no moon nor stars. The rude little station was lit by torches flaming in the mist and wind. Beyond, impenetrable darkness. A storm was brewing over the mountains. Haller's face, as he greeted the travellers with one of his contortions, looked weird in the torchlight. They followed him out to the wagon, in which they sank with a sigh of relief. The trip, with the delay, had been tedious. Haller whipped the ponies up briskly. The wagon careered recklessly from side to side as they drove, and the wind drove the mist into their faces.

"I suppose you know your road, my good man?" said Lord Stafford.

"There's no risk of falling over a precipice or anything of that kind, is there? It's so confoundedly black."

Haller chuckled. "Them ponies know the're way--the've been bred up in these parts. I'd trust them sooner'n myself."

"Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

"Is this our destination?" asked Lord Stafford, as they stopped at the landing.

"Oh, we ain't no ways near thar yet," said Haller, with another chuckle. He raised a lantern and showed them "The Indiana" waiting at the dock, the lake lapping against her sides.

"Must we get in that?" said Stafford, peering out into the darkness of the lake.

"Waal, yes; if you want ter go to Camp Indiana. It's at the far end of the lake."