“You had better not talk now,” Nancy cautioned Orilla.
“Oh, I must; I’m not so very sick, just weak and worried, and I’ll be better when I’ve told you,” Orilla insisted. “Girls, this is the camp I was building,” she began. “You see, my father was a carpenter and I love even the scent of freshly cut wood.”
A smile twisted Rosa’s face at this, but she quickly conquered it. She had disastrously followed Orilla in her quest for freshly cut wood.
“Yes, I always carried home chips,” Orilla went on, having risen on her queer bed and settled her head against an uncovered pine pillow. “When I was very small I would follow the men who chopped the trees, to carry the chips home in my little sunbonnet. I have always loved new wood.”
“This place is wonderful,” Dell interrupted. “Just like a picture. I can’t imagine you building it all alone. You are really a genius at it, Orilla.”
“My arms are very strong—I suppose I’ve trained them to be,” Orilla said, “but Rosa helped me with the wood—”
“You bet I did,” exclaimed Rosa, “and my hands still bear the marks.”
“Well, you see,” the sick girl continued, “I know what an attraction a real hut in a real woods would be, and I’ve worked at this all summer. I was going to bring parties here—”
“We had one of them to-day,” burst out Nancy, and that remark brought on a hurried report of the party just held at Fernlode.
“You did that! You girls!” exclaimed Orilla, who was too surprised to lie still. She was shifting to a sitting position, her thick, bright hair hanging over her shoulders, adding the last touch to her tropical appearance under the thatched hut.