"Wouldn't it be nice," asked Marjory, "if we could come here to camp?"
"We're here now," returned matter-of-fact Mabel. "Let's pretend we really are camping."
"Look at the lake!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly. "It isn't blue any more—it's all gray and silver."
"And all the ripples are gone," observed Henrietta. "See how flat and smooth it is and how lazy it is along the edges. And the sand is turning pink!"
"Hush!" warned quick-eared Marjory. "I think Mr. Black's calling us—yes, he's waving the tablecloth!"
After they had picked their way rather painfully over the bed of sharp pebbles, the barefooted girls ran gaily along the hard, smooth beach—they were surprised to find themselves so far from their foot-gear.
"Mr. Black seems excited," remarked Jean. "I wonder if anything has happened."
"Perhaps," said Henrietta, soberly, "it's time to go home."
"It can't be," protested Mabel. "We've only just come—anyway, it seems so."