“While you talk, Miss Miller, we will collect, as the surf is leaving more and more shells on the sand as the tide recedes,” said Hilda, eagerly picking up everything she saw.
“O-oh! but it makes your back ache terribly! Mine is simply broken in two and I can’t stoop another time!” declared Eleanor.
“Oh be a sport, Ella! Don’t spoil everything by your whimperings,” said Zan, expressing disgust in her voice.
“I just guess if you were as delicate as I am your bones would ache, too!” retorted Eleanor.
“Thank goodness I’m no hypochondriac!” snapped Zan.
Eleanor was not sure what that word meant, so she hesitated to publish her ignorance. She was quite sure, however, that it was Latin for some illness known only to a doctor or his immediate family. The fact that she could not reply made her more peevish, and she turned without another word and walked back to camp.
“Well I never! If she isn’t the poorest kind of a Woodcrafter a Tribe ever had the bad luck to have hang on to its wings!” exclaimed Zan, watching the girl saunter away from her companions.
The other girls tittered but the Guide said: “Oh she’s coming on fine, I think!”
“Miss Miller!” gasped several voices.
“You don’t believe me, do you? Wait and see!” rejoined the Guide.