The strange phrases, the new ideas, the dim, vague vision of most unwonted doings—there is no telling what a stir-up it all was. The three girls had gone to the post office together in the course of their afternoon walk, and had taken turns at bringing the precious missive home. Now they sat about on the front steps, while Mrs. Kindred, in the porch rocking chair, opened and read the letter aloud.
I think she never even thought of a hidden meaning in "Camp Hard," passing it by as a mere name; but as she read on, even where the words themselves were perplexing, their intent was unmistakable. At the end of almost the very first sentence Mrs. Kindred took off her glasses, laid them down on the letter, and looked about her.
"No time to say his soul is his own," she said. "Why, what does this mean?"
Everybody else had felt the shock, but as usual they all crowded in to the rescue.
"It must be just his way of talking," said Violet. "Don't you know, mother, that when Magnus gets excited he always goes on stilts?"
"And of course, he is very busy," said Rose, "with so many new things to do."
"And you can see he is talking in the air, Mrs. Kindred," said Cherry's sweet voice, "because he instances something for which he does not want time. Magnus has never called his soul his own, since he gave it to Christ to save and keep."
"Dear boy!" said the mother. "Thank you, Cherry, for reminding me. Yes, I will not doubt,"—and she read on.
"I cannot see why he says 'skinned,'" said Violet. "It's a very queer way to talk."
"But just like him," said Rose. "Magnus always did talk wild—just a little bit," the sisterly censure softening down. "And you see they play games for exercise—so that is very good."