Betty and Amy went to work with them and it was not long before they had a pile of wood large enough to satisfy even their longing in the matter of a fire.
Then, having piled the dried timber up neatly with a skill born of long experience, they fired it and stood about happily as the flames licked upward, crackling and hissing merrily.
As the blaze grew the heat from the fire became intense and they were forced to retreat from it almost to the opening of their tent. Here they flung themselves to the ground, watching the flames in dreamy content.
“Well, Amy, are you satisfied?” asked Grace at last, breaking a rather long silence. “You wanted a fire, you know.”
“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” returned Amy, happily. “Don’t you think it needs a little more wood on this end, Betty?”
“Perhaps,” said the Little Captain, lazily. “Can you reach the wood, Amy?”
For answer Amy threw a handful of twigs on the blaze where they twisted and sputtered, sending out that acrid smell of burning wood that is so beloved of campers.
“I wonder,” said Mollie, breaking another long silence, “what happened to Henry Blackford’s shack, anyway. It’s sort of mysterious, burning down all by itself.”
“That’s probably something we’ll never know,” said Betty, softly.
And so they sat about their campfire, not realizing the swift passing of time till the blaze burned low and in its flickering glow Betty looked at her watch.