Louise sat closer to Winona.
“Winnie,” she said, “that’s just what I climbed out of bed about myself. I was coming to look for you when I met you. I’ve been worrying about it, too. It was a lark, but I think it’s up to us to gambol over there, clothed and in our right minds—and own up.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Winona. “We’ll tell Mrs. Bryan in the morning.”
“All right,” said Louise, and she began to giggle.
“And then, while they’re thinking how noble it is of us to confess, we’ll sell ’em more things—real Camp Fire Girls’ hand-crafts!”
“Louise,” said Winona with admiring conviction, “you certainly are the limit.”
They both laughed, and felt better. Then they went back to bed and went to sleep.
Next morning they rowed duly up the lake, and made a conscientious round of the hotels and cottages where they had sold their things the day before. But the way of the transgressor refused to be hard. They could wake very little excitement on the subject of their transformation in the minds of their patrons—who, it is to be feared, either regarded it all as a good joke, or did not worry about it at all. Indeed, most of the people Louise could find to explain to were more wronged because she had no goods with her, than by anything else. So she took a number of orders.
“It’s no use, Lou,” said Winona, as they met at noon by the hotel where Miss Lawrence stayed, “I can’t get a soul to care whether I’m a Canadian or a Hottentot. The only thing they’ll say is, ‘We’d like some more of the baskets,’ or ‘those runners,’ or whatever they didn’t get yesterday.”
“Same here,” said Louise. “But I landed some fine fat orders, and if you’re as clever as I think you are, you did, too.”