CHAPTER VII—“The Flames in the Wind”
When an hour later Betty Ashton finished her story of the first years of the Camp Fire girls at Sunrise Hill on the table nearby three candles were burning and about them was a circle of eager faces.
Moreover, from the cedar which Betty had bought as a part of her winter bouquet a miniature tree had been built as the eternal Camp Fire emblem and there also were the emblems of the wood gatherer, fire maker and torch bearer constructed from odd sticks which Cricket had mysteriously produced in the interval of the story telling.
“That is the most delightful experience that I ever heard of girls having, a whole year out of doors with a chance to do nice things for yourself, a fairy story that was really true,” Cricket sighed finally. “Funny, but I never heard of a Camp Fire club and I have never been to the country.”
“You have never been to the country?” Betty repeated her words slowly, staring first at Cricket and then at the other girls. No one else seemed surprised by the remark.
In answer the younger girl flushed. “I told you I had not,” she repeated in a slightly sarcastic tone. “But please don’t look as if the world had come to an end. Lots of poor people don’t do much traveling and we have five children in the family besides me. Of course, I couldn’t go on school picnics and Sunday-school excursions like the others.” Here an annoyed, disappointed expression crept into Cricket’s eyes and she grew less cheerful.
“Please don’t spoil our nice morning together, Miss Ashton, by beginning to pity me. I hate people who are sorry for themselves. That is the reason we girls have liked you so much, you have been so different from the others.”
Quietly Betty began putting on her wraps. She had been watching Cricket’s face all the time she had been talking of Sunrise Hill, of the grove of pine trees and the lake. Yet if the thought had leapt into her mind that she would like to show her new acquaintance something more beautiful than the chimney tops of Boston, it was now plain that she must wait until they were better friends.
“But you’ll come again soon and tell us more?” Cricket next asked, picking up their visitor’s muff and pressing it close to her face with something like a caress. Then more softly, “I did not mean to be rude.”
Betty nodded. “Of course I’ll come if you wish me. You see, I am a stranger in Boston and lonely. But I’ll never have anything half so interesting to tell you as the history of our club with such girls as Polly O’Neill, Esther and Meg and the rest for heroines. Nothing in my whole life has ever been such fun. Do you know I was wondering——”