He took up the book that lay beside him and opened it. "The secret of the Forest: Good in everything," he read. "To remember the secret of the Forest, to bear hard things bravely—" He turned the leaves and saw under Morgan's straggling characters the once familiar writing of Celia Fair,—the firm, delicate backhand, so suggestive, to one who knew her, of the determination that lay beneath her gentleness. Did Celia believe there was good in everything? Surely not in all this trouble. Yet she was bearing hard things bravely, if all he heard were true. It hurt him to think of her carrying a load of responsibility and care. His own life seemed tame from its very lack of care.
He closed the book with decision. His task was to unravel these twisted threads of hatred and misunderstanding, and he would do it.
Meanwhile, he found time for other things. He began to cultivate the society of the Arden Foresters, and to be a boy again in earnest.
Boating on the picturesque little river was one of the pleasures of Friendship. Jack Parton and his brothers owned a boat, the Mermaid; and Allan now provided himself with one, which he delighted Rosalind by naming for her. After this the Mermaid and the Rosalind might frequently be seen following the narrow stream in its winding course, making their way among water lilies and yellow and purple spatter-dock, between banks fringed with willows and wild oats and here and there a dump of cat-tails. What pleasanter way than this of spending the early summer mornings? And then to find some shady anchorage, where lunch could be eaten and the hours fleeted away merrily until the cool of the afternoon.
With only three in each boat, it was light work for the oarsman; and as rowing was something Maurice could do, and as the girls liked to take their turn, it often happened that Mr. Whittredge had nothing to do but enjoy himself.
Allan smiled sometimes to think how much pleasure he found in the society of these young people. He usually carried a book or magazine, but as often as not it was unopened.
"I suppose the real Arden Foresters did not read books," he remarked one day as, after glancing through the pages of a late novel, he tossed it disrespectfully into the empty lunch basket.
They had eaten their picnic dinner and were resting in easy attitudes on the grass,—Miss Betty not being present to mention spines,—in sight of their boats, swinging gently at anchor.
"Not any?" exclaimed Rosalind, to whom the idea of no books was a dreadful one.
"But they were in a story and were having lots of fun," said Belle.