Madge Morton's Trust

The "Sea Gull" and the "Merry Maid" Began their Voyage.
Frontispiece.

Madge Morton's
Trust
By
AMY D. V. CHALMERS
Author of Madge Morton, Captain of the Merry Maid; Madge
Morton's Secret, Madge Morton's Victory.
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY

Copyright, 1914, by Howard E. Altemus

CONTENTS

Madge Morton's Trust

CHAPTER I
A LATE ARRIVAL

IT was a particularly hot day in early July. A girl came out on the back porch of an old-fashioned New England house and dropped into a hammock. She looked tired, but her big black eyes were eager with interest.

She held a fat letter in her hand which contained many pages. At the top of the letter was a pen-and-ink drawing of a miniature houseboat with five girls running about on the deck, their hair blowing, their skirts awry. One of them held a broom in her hand; she was the domestic Eleanor! Another waved a frying pan; Miss Jenny Ann Jones, Chief Cook and Chaperon! The third girl was drying her long, blonde hair in the sun; Miss Lillian Seldon, the beauty of the houseboat party!

The girl in the hammock recognized herself: she was feeding a weird-looking animal on four legs with a spoon. And standing among the others, apparently talking as fast as she possibly could, and doing no work of any kind, was a young woman whom the artist had carefully labeled "Madge."

Phyllis Alden laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. She could not recall having laughed in two months, and she was sure she would keep on giggling as long as she read her letter.

"Miss Alden"—a woman in the uniform of a professional nurse appeared at the door—"your mother says do you know where the twins are? She is restless about them. I promised her I would come to you. I am sorry to disturb you; I know you are tired."

"Not a bit of it, Miss Brazier," insisted Phil stoutly. "Those dreadful babies! I had forgotten I had not seen them in the last half hour. Of course, they are in mischief. I will look for them right away."

Phil thrust her precious letter into her blouse. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and her letter from her chum had arrived in the morning post. These were busy days for Phyllis Alden. Early in May she had been called home from school by the illness of her mother. Since that time the care of her father's house and looking after the irrepressible twins had been Phyllis's work. Her mother was better now, on the sure road to convalescence, and Phil had begun to confess to herself that she was tired.

At one side of the house there was a rain-barrel. It was strictly forbidden territory, so Phil knew at once where to look for the twins. Hanging over the edge of the barrel were two fat little girls with tight black curls. They were bent double and were fishing for queer, bobbing things that floated on the surface of the rainwater. A firm hand caught Daisy by one leg. Dot, terrified by her big sister's sudden appearance, tumbled into the barrel with a gasp and a splash.

Phil felt half-vexed; still, she was obliged to laugh at the little ones, they looked so utterly roguish.

"Frog in the middle, can't get out," she teased the small girl in the center of the barrel. Then she fished Dot out and started with both little maids for the house to make them presentable before dinner. Phyllis knew that they must both be washed and dressed before she would have another chance to peep at her precious letter. Still, it comforted her to think how amused her Madge would be by her funny little four-year-old twin sisters and their mischievous ways.

It was just before dinner time when Phyllis firmly locked her bedroom door and took her precious letter from her blouse. She would read it now, or die in the effort. It began:

"Dear old Phil:

"I am not writing you from 'Forest House,' but from no other place than the famous old city of Boston, Massachusetts. I came here the other day because I believed I would find news of my father, but I was disappointed and am going back home in a few days.

"But I don't want to write about myself; I want to write about you, dear old Phil! I am so glad your mother is better. When she is quite well, can't you come to visit Nellie and me at 'Forest House'? We have missed you so. The Commencement exercises at Miss Tolliver's were no fun at all this year. When Miss Matilda got up and announced that Miss Phyllis Alden had been called home before the final spring examination because of the illness of her mother, and would, therefore, be passed on to the senior class of her preparatory school on account of her high standing in her classes, I cheered for all I was worth, and so did every one else.

"Ah, Phil, dear, it has been ages since last I saw you! I would give all my curls, and my hair really makes a long braid nowadays, if I could only see you. How I wish we could spend the rest of this summer on our beautiful houseboat! The poor little 'Merry Maid'! How lonely she must be without us. Tom Curtis and Jack Bolling wrote and asked me to let them tow us up the Rappahannock River this summer. They are going on a motor trip. But, alas and alack! we haven't any money to pay our expenses, so I fear there will be no houseboat party this summer. It's dreadfully sad, but, more than anything else, I regret not seeing you, Phil. With my dearest love. Write soon. Your devoted

Madge."

Phyllis finished her letter with a warm feeling around her heart but a sigh on her lips. No "Merry Maid" this summer! Well, Phyllis had not expected it, yet it seemed cruel to think of the four girls and Miss Jones being separated for another year from their "Ship of Dreams," where they had spent two wonderful holidays.

The story of how Madge Morton, Phyllis Alden, Lillian Seldon and Eleanor Butler came into possession of a houseboat is fully set forth in the first volume of this series, entitled "Madge Morton, Captain of the 'Merry Maid.'" The happy summer spent by the four young women on board the "Merry Maid," chaperoned by Miss Jenny Ann Jones, one of the teachers in the boarding school which they attended, was one long to be remembered.

While anchored in a quiet bit of water, a part of the great Chesapeake Bay, they made many friends, chief among whom were Mrs. Curtis, a wealthy widow, and her son Tom. Mrs. Curtis's instant liking for Madge, her subsequent offer to adopt her, and the remarkable manner in which Madge and Phyllis were instrumental in discovering their friend's own daughter, who had been lost at sea years before, in a poor fisher girl whom they rescued from her cruel foster father, formed a lively narrative.

"Madge Morton's Secret" told of the girls' second sojourn on their houseboat, which was anchored near Old Point Comfort. There the girls saw much of the social life of the Army and Navy, and it was while there that Madge incurred the enmity of a young woman named Flora Harris, who made the little captain's life very unpleasant for a time.

The mysterious cutting of the "Merry Maid's" cable on a stormy night, the voyaging of the little boat out into the bay, and the island shore to which she drifted in the gray dawn, and how, after living the life of young Crusoes for many weeks, they were rescued and returned to their sorrowing friends, made absorbing reading for those interested in following the fortunes of Madge Morton.

But to go back to the subject of Phyllis Alden: She and her father, Dr. Alden, were firm friends. Every evening since her mother's illness they had taken a walk together after the twins were safely tucked in bed. It was a pleasure to which they both looked forward all day. To-night they were late in getting away from the house, and, as they strolled along through the quiet streets, Phyllis was unusually silent. She had told her father of Madge's letter, but she had not mentioned her invitation to visit Madge and Nellie at their home in Virginia. Phil did not think she could be spared from home and did not wish to worry her father. Yet all the time that Phil was so silent Dr. Alden was wondering where he could send Phyllis to spend a well-earned holiday. He did not have much money to spare, but his beloved daughter must somehow be given a rest.

Phyllis and her father were almost home again when the girl thought she heard some one running behind them. She turned with apprehensive suddenness. The night was dark and the streets were narrow; only at the corners the electric lamps made bright, open spaces. Under one of these lights Phyllis looked back fearfully. She could barely discern a figure. It was walking close to the fence and seemed to be carrying something. Phil could not discover what it was, and Dr. Alden, who was slightly deaf, heard nothing.

Suddenly a watchdog set up a furious barking and rushed out into the street. Phil felt more secure. If any one were lurking in the shadow with the thought of attacking her father, the dog would surely come to their rescue. Yet now she could hear six feet pattering after them instead of two. The dog must have been won over by their enemy.

"Father"—Phil put her hand nervously on her father's arm; she was not herself to-night; she was tired and full of unexpressed longings for her friends—"wait!" Phil ended her sentence abruptly. Some one distinctly called her name, "Phil!" it echoed down the empty street.

Dr. Alden and his daughter both turned. Yet it was impossible to see any great distance beyond them. They were in the light, while the shadows down the sidewalk were densely black. Some one was coming toward them, though it was difficult to know if it were a man or a woman.

Straight into Phil's arms whirled a breathless girl, her hat on one side, her curly hair tumbling down and her eyes as bright as the fireflies that flickered through the dark streets. The girl carried a heavy suit case, and a large dog walked protectingly at her side.

It was Madge Morton. She had arrived alone and unannounced in the city of Hartford at a perfectly incredible hour of the night!

Dr. Alden was overcome with surprise. He had heard Phil give a cry of rapture, saw a suit case drop to the ground, then two girls meet in a joyful embrace.

"I might have known you would come when I needed you most, Madge," cried Phil rapturously. Phil was not really surprised by her chum's appearance. She knew that the most astonishing things in the world were just the things that Madge Morton would do as though they were the most natural.

"Is your mother better?" whispered Madge. "For goodness' sake, Phil, dear girl, let me tell your father who I am and how I happened to appear at this unearthly hour." Madge put her hand into the doctor's. "Please forgive me, Dr. Alden," she began. "I wrote Phil I was in Boston and about to start for home. I was on the way to the depot to buy my ticket when suddenly I remembered that I wasn't so far from dear Phil. I have been wanting to see her so dreadfully. So I just telegraphed Uncle and Aunt that I was going to stop over in Hartford a few hours.

"Of course, we had a wreck on the train, so here I am, only six hours late. When I came in at the station to-night I just inquired what car I should take to bring me to your address. And wasn't it funny? I saw you and Phil cross the street at the corner, so I jumped off the car and ran after you. I thought this old dog was going to eat me up, but the dear old fellow has adopted me instead."

Madge patted the strange dog affectionately with her left hand. Phil had never let go of her right one.

"I hope you will forgive my dropping in on you like this. I am ashamed of myself, but I just had to have a look at Phil."

"You've dropped from heaven! You are an angel unawares, Madge Morton," vowed practical Phil Alden in devout tones. "I was never so glad to see anybody in my life. Now, if you leave me to-morrow, I shall surely die."

Madge laughed happily. How good it seemed to be with dear old Phil once more. Dr. Alden picked up her suit case and looked at her with earnest, kindly eyes.

"Daughter," he said kindly, "I am almost as pleased to see you as Phil is. Come home with us. You must be worn out from your journey."

For the first time Madge realized that she was a little tired and that she had been a little frightened at arriving alone in a strange city at night. But then she was with Phil.

CHAPTER II
THE DOCTOR'S SUGGESTION

MADGE fitted marvelously into Dr. Alden's troubled household. She read to Mrs. Alden when the nurse was away, cheered her with funny stories and really helped her to grow well and strong.

As for the twins, Dot and Daisy, they were never absent from the little captain's side, except when Phil positively commanded it. Madge used to take long walks with one of them clinging to either side of her skirt. Where she found her patience when they tumbled down, lagged behind and begged for more fairy tales every minute was a marvel. But Madge had been shocked at her beloved Phil's careworn appearance and came gallantly to her rescue. She might have little consideration for strangers, she could do wonders for the people she loved and one long look into her friend's tired face made her resolve to do her best for Phil.

The next morning after Madge's unceremonious arrival Dr. Alden wrote a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Butler, asking them to allow Madge to make Phyllis a visit. Madge also wrote a note, but it was not in the nature of a request. Instead, she dashed off the following letter to her Virginia relatives:

"Dearest Aunt and Uncle:

"Don't worry about me. I am at Phil's and having the best kind of a time. I am going to stay with her for a few days, as she needs me. Do I hear any dissenting voices? I hope not! Tell Nellie we miss her terribly. With lots of love to all of you. Don't bother to write. I'll take the will for the deed.

"Lovingly,

"Madge."

"There," declared Madge as she skipped up the steps after handing her letter to the postman, "that will stifle all Virginia objections. Now, I am going to enjoy myself while I am with dear Phil."

In the days that followed Madge's declaration she helped Phil keep house with a will. Dr. Alden used to call her "The Second Daughter," and Madge derived untold pleasure from the drives she took with him over the country roads to see his patients.

One afternoon, however, as they jogged along toward the home of a patient who lived several miles from town, Madge was unusually silent. Though the air was sweet with the perfume of honeysuckle, and their road ran through a particularly beautiful bit of country, she was dreamy and abstracted.

From time to time Dr. Alden gazed at her humorously. His fellow-passenger was in a deep reverie and had forgotten his presence.

"Thinking of your houseboat, eh, Madge?" he inquired.

"Yes, Doctor Man," answered Madge quickly, "of the houseboat and Phil." She sat very straight in the buggy, and, drawing her level brows into a frown, said slowly: "I was saying over to myself that when five nice, capable young women wish a very special thing very much they ought to be able to obtain it. You see, we wish to spend the beginning of the summer on the houseboat. It would be splendid for Phil. But we haven't the money, so I am trying to find out how to get it."

The physician's eyes twinkled. "That is not a new occupation, Madge. Most of us spend our time in trying to get hold of that same mighty dollar. But we have to work for it as well as to think about it. I wonder if you girls wish the holiday on your boat badly enough to work for it? If only I could give you the money!"

Madge looked earnestly at the doctor, then said slowly: "That's just it. Of course, we are willing to work for the money. But I must find out what we can do in a hurry. You see, we need the money at once."

After they reached their destination, the doctor stayed a long while at his call on his country patient, and Madge, left alone in the buggy, had plenty of time to devise a thousand schemes for acquiring riches and to dismiss them all as impracticable. The physician had driven his old horse inside the trim yard of his patient, and the road lay near the big front porch door. The little garden was as pretty and tidy as the pictures in Kate Greenaway books. It grew tall hollyhocks, neatly cut hedges, and a riot of old rose bushes. Madge might well have spent her time in gazing at it, as it was a typical New England garden on a small scale. But it seemed too tiny and conventional to the little captain, whose inner vision conjured up the sight of the great, oak-shaded lawn at "Forest House." Just then she had more practical problems to occupy her attention. She let the reins fall loosely on the horse's neck, for he was in the habit of standing without being hitched. To-day old Prince grew tired with waiting and began to nibble at the short grass. Madge, lost in her daydreams, paid no heed to him. The horse moved on. Ahead there was a particularly delicious bunch of tall, feathery grass, which had been allowed to grow unaccountably high. It was a rare shrub, but the old horse was not aware of it. The wheel of the buggy that held the heedless driver passed over the high porch step. The girl inside felt herself let gently down on the ground and a high, black canopy covered her. Then, at last, Madge became alive to the situation.

But it was too late! Old Prince was frightened. The noise of the overturned buggy had upset his nerves. He began to run—not very fast, but fast enough so that Madge found herself being dragged along the ground over the smooth grass lawn. She couldn't crawl out from under the buggy and she certainly did not wish to remain under it. She raised her voice in one long cry of terror.

A boy had been working back of the house. He was in his shirt sleeves and had an old, torn, straw hat pulled down over his eyes. An ugly scowl was the only attention he had paid to the doctor and Madge as they drove into the yard. His face was flushed, not so much from the sun as from the anger that was raging within him. It was hard enough to work like a slave for a cranky old maid, without being constantly "pecked at." David believed that he hated every one in the world. Yet at Madge's shrill cry for help he dropped his rake and ran toward the front lawn. He saw the overturned buggy, heard the noise that came from underneath it, but he could see no sign of Madge. Dr. Alden had also dashed from the house onto the front porch. He was followed by a woman of about sixty years. Her hair was parted in the middle and she wore little bunches of corkscrew curls over each ear, in the fashion of half a century ago. "Oh, my! Oh, my!" she cried, wringing her hands. "How can I bear it? how can I bear it?" One might have supposed that she were frightened over Madge.

Dr. Alden started in pursuit of the horse. But at his approach old Prince quickened his pace. "Stand still!" a peremptory voice called to him sharply. "Stop crying out!" the same voice ordered Madge.

Dr. Alden gazed in bewilderment at the speaker. Madge at the same instant realized that she must be frightening the horse with the noise she was making.

The boy with the torn hat advanced quietly toward the horse, showing no special interest in him. He called gently to the animal, holding out a bunch of grass. Prince was only frightened at the strange turn his affairs had taken. He now stopped for a minute. Immediately a firm hand seized his head.

Dr. Alden made a move toward his buggy. "Unhitch the horse," commanded the boy.

Once the horse was free from the buggy Dr. Alden and the young man lifted it on one side. Out crawled Madge, a most inglorious figure. She was covered with dust, her face grimy. Her hair had tumbled down and hung in a loose bunch of curls over her shoulders.

"I am not a bit hurt, Doctor," she announced bravely, as soon as she got her breath. "It was all my fault. I let old Prince get away from me. I am so afraid I have broken the buggy."

"What a nice girl!" thought David. "She isn't a bit fussy. I wonder how she will take the old lady?"

While the physician assured Madge that his vehicle was not injured in the least, and that he would not have minded its being smashed into bits so long as she was unhurt, a woman walked across the yard and glared angrily at Madge.

"Young woman," she said in a thin, high voice, "look—look at what you and that wretched horse have done."

Madge blinked some of the dirt from her eyes, then tried to twist her hair back into some kind of order. "I am sorry," she answered in bewilderment. "But what have we done?"

David swallowed a malicious grin of satisfaction.

The woman fairly gasped at Madge's question. "You've torn up my lawn, trampled down my prize rose-bush, and—and—please take the young woman away, doctor. My nerves won't endure anything more after the night I have spent. I am sure I would never dare trust my life to any one who goes about turning over buggies and ruining people's gardens."

Trust her life? Of what was the woman talking? Madge thought she could not have heard aright.

"Never mind your lawn, Miss Betsey," answered Dr. Alden severely. "Be grateful that the child isn't hurt. Thank you, David." The doctor began fumbling in his pocket for his money.

Madge saw her rescuer's face turn scarlet. He was a manly looking fellow of perhaps eighteen.

With a muttered, "I'm not a beggar," he turned and walked away from them.

After exchanging a little further conversation with Miss Betsey, the doctor and Madge drove away. Outside the yard Madge began to laugh. She could still see the old maid wringing her hands and gazing in anguish at her cherished garden.

"Scat!" grumbled Madge.

The doctor smiled. "Miss Betsey is a bit of an old cat, child. But I don't wish you to be prejudiced against her, poor old soul."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of her being like a cat, Doctor Man," apologized Madge. "I am very fond of cats. I was thinking of Miss Betsey in 'David Copperfield.' Don't you remember how she used to rush out and cry 'Scat!' all the time at the donkeys that she feared were going to ruin her lawn? Old Prince and I were the 'donkeys' this afternoon. Who is that boy named David? He is very good looking, isn't he?"

"David? Oh, he is a poor boy who works around Miss Taylor's place—a distant cousin of hers, I believe. His mother was a gentlewoman, but she married a man who turned out badly and her family disowned her. This youngster has a bad disposition and Miss Betsey says he is not faithful to his work. He steals off every now and then and hides for hours up in a loft. No one knows what he is doing up there."

"Well, I don't think I would like to work for Miss Betsey," returned Madge thoughtfully. "Somehow I feel sorry for this David." She remembered the boy's quick flush of resentment at the doctor's offer of money. She wished that she had been able to thank him herself for his share in her rescue.

"I am sorry you think you would not like to work for Miss Betsey," returned the doctor unexpectedly, "because I had a suggestion to make to you and Phil. But after to-day I am afraid it will be of no use. Miss Taylor is a rich old maid patient of mine. I have looked after her since Phyllis was a little girl. She has no relatives and no interest in life except in her little estate, which has been in her family for several generations. She makes herself ill by imagining that she has a variety of diseases. All she needs is fresh air and young companionship. I wonder if there is any way that she can manage to get it?"

Madge felt a shiver creep up and down her spine. She had a premonition of what Dr. Alden was going to propose to her and to Phil. Surely they could not be expected to Jonah their pretty houseboat by taking aboard such a fellow-passenger as this dreadful old maid! How could they ever have any fun with her on board? Instead of calling their pretty craft the "Merry Maid," she would have to be re-christened "Old Maid," Madge thought resentfully.

Dr. Alden did not return to the subject of Miss Betsey during the long ride home. He was too wise for that. Nevertheless, he had given Madge something to think about.

CHAPTER III
DAVID FINDS A FRIEND

IT'S all right, Phyllis! Tom Curtis is a dear. David is to go with us." Madge breathed a sigh of satisfaction over the success of her scheme.

Phyllis Alden laughed. She was buttoning the twins into clean pinafores. "I am not surprised. I knew Tom would find a place for David if you asked him to do so. Tom Curtis is quite likely to do Madge Morton's will."

Madge flushed. "Don't be a goose, please, Phil," she begged. "You know that as long as we are to take Miss Betsey Taylor on board our houseboat, in order to be able to pay the expenses of our trip this summer," Madge made a wry face, "that we ought not to leave poor David high and dry without any work to do. I was awfully sorry for the boy when he came here the other day and heard what Miss Betsey thought of doing. He turned quite white, and when I asked him if he was sorry to be thrown out of work, he said 'Yes,' and then he wouldn't talk any more."

Phyllis looked serious. "I hope it will turn out for the best, but it is asking a good deal of Tom to take this strange boy way down to Virginia with him. David hasn't a good reputation. Miss Taylor employs him only because he is a distant cousin of hers. No one else will have anything to do with him, he is so surly and unfriendly. He was turned out of the district school, and——"

Madge pretended to put her fingers in her ears. "Don't tell me any more mean things about that poor fellow, please, dear," she pleaded. "I suppose it is because I have never heard a good word about him that I, being an obstinate person, don't think he can be as bad as he is painted. I am a black sheep myself, sometimes, when my horrid temper gets the better of me, and I know how dreadful it is not to be trusted."

"You a black sheep! O Madge! how absurd you are," protested Phil.

But Madge was in earnest and would not be interrupted. "Tom really did need some one on his motor boat, Phil. He wrote me that he meant to hire some one to come along with him. Tom wishes to run his own engine, but he doesn't yearn for the task of cleaning it or to do the very hard work. Of course, that is all right. He has plenty of money and can do as he chooses. But it's different with David."

"How many boys will Tom have on his motor boat while he has us in tow?" inquired Phil. She realized that Madge had been seized with one of her sudden fits of enthusiasm over Miss Betsey Taylor's "hired boy" and that there was no sense in opposing her. The little captain would find out later whether her enthusiasm had been right or wrong.

"Four or five," answered Madge absently. "Do stand still, Daisy Alden, while I tie your sunbonnet, or I'll eat you alive!" she scolded kissing one of the twin babies on her fat pink cheek. "Come on, Phil. Hold tight to Dot. If we are going to drive out to Miss Betsey Taylor's to see whether she still desires to pay us sixty dollars a month for food, lodging and the pleasure of our delightful society aboard our precious houseboat, we had better start at once."

Phil, Madge and the twins waved good-bye to Mrs. Alden, who was well enough now to be about her house, as they piled themselves into the physician's old buggy, which he had left for their use during the day.

The doctor's suggestion looked as though it were going to come true. At first Madge and Phil protested that they simply couldn't bear to take a fussy old maid on their houseboat excursion. But then, if they did not take Miss Betsey, there wouldn't be any excursion. The girls were between Scylla and Charybdis, like the ill-fated Ulysses on his journey back from Troy. Scylla, Miss Betsey, went with them, or Charybdis, the houseboat party, would have to decline Tom Curtis's offer to tow them up the Rappahannock River. So the girls decided to choose "Miss Scylla," as they nicknamed poor Miss Betsey.

As for Miss Betsey Taylor, she had been even more horrified than the two houseboat girls when the doctor made the proposal to her. How was she to cure her nerves by trusting herself to a party of gay young people with a twenty-six-year-old chaperon as the only balance to the party. Absurd! Miss Betsey wrung her hands at the very idea. But after a while the allurement of the plan began to stir even her conventional old soul. The thought of being borne gently along a beautiful river dividing the Virginia shores wrought enchantment. There was something else that influenced Miss Betsey. Years before she had had a "near romance." A young Virginia officer had come to New York and had met Miss Betsey at the home of a friend. During one winter he saw her many times, and although he was too poor to speak of marriage, Miss Betsey was entitled to believe that he had cared for her. One day Miss Betsey had an argument with her admirer. It was a foolish argument, but the Virginia officer believed that Miss Betsey had insulted him. He went away and never saw her again. Afterward she learned that he had returned to his ruined estate in Virginia.

It was a poor shadow of a romance, but Miss Betsey had never had another. In late years she had begun to think of her past. It did add a flavor of romance to her trip in the houseboat to imagine that she might have been a happy matron, living on one of the old places that she would see in Virginia, instead of being Miss Betsey Taylor of Hartford, who had never ventured farther than New York City in the sixty years of her maiden life. To tell the truth, Miss Betsey was as enthusiastic over the prospect of a trip in a houseboat as were the members of the "Merry Maid's" crew.

When the two girls and the children drove into Miss Betsey's yard David helped Madge, Phil and the twins out of the doctor's buggy, looking more surly and impossible than ever. A secret bitterness was surging in him. Miss Betsey had promised to give him steady work at "Chestnut Cottage" all summer. Now she was going away on a trip with a lot of silly girls. Once again he was to be balked in the cherished desire of his life. In his bitterness of heart he pretended he had never seen Madge before.

"I would like to talk to you, David, after we have seen Miss Taylor," said Madge in a friendly fashion to the scowling youth. "I won't take up much of your time."

David walked away without making any reply, which angered the girl, and as she walked into the house she began to feel rather sorry that she had tried to play Good Samaritan to such a churlish fellow.

To-day Miss Betsey really wished to make a good impression on Madge and Phil. She was as anxious that they should like her as the girls were to please the queer old lady. Miss Betsey was waiting for her guests in her prim, old-fashioned parlor. The dim light from the closed green blinds was grateful after the brilliant sunshine of the warm July day. On a little, spindle-legged mahogany table were tall glasses of fruit lemonade and a plate of assorted cakes.

Miss Betsey surveyed Madge Morton with keen, curious eyes. She already knew Phil. But before she trusted her life to these girls she wished to take their measure. Madge's appearance as she emerged from under the overturned buggy had not been prepossessing. To-day Miss Betsey would be able to judge her better. As she scrutinized the little captain she was not altogether pleased with Madge's looks. She preferred Phil's dark, serious face. There was too much ardor, too much warm, bright color about Madge in her deep-toned auburn hair and the healthy scarlet of her lips. Madge breathed a kind of radiant impulse toward a fullness of life that was opposed to Miss Betsey Taylor's theory of existence. Still, she could find no objection to the young girl's manner. Madge was so shy and deprecating that Phil could hardly help laughing at her. What would Miss Betsey think later on, when the little captain had one of her attacks of high spirits?

Miss Taylor asked so many questions about the houseboat that Phil was kept busy answering her. Madge spoke only in monosyllables, her attention being devoted to the twins. The cake and lemonade having been disposed of, these two tiny persons kept wriggling about the drawing room in momentary peril of upsetting the tables and chairs.

"Miss Taylor," broke in Madge suddenly, in her usual, unexpected fashion, "if you don't mind, I think I will take the little girls out into your back garden. I wish to speak to your boy, David. I have asked our friend, Tom Curtis, to take David to help him with his motor boat during our trip. I hope you don't mind?"

Miss Betsey caught her breath. She was startled by the suddenness of Madge's suggestion, as she was to be many times during her acquaintance with that young woman. Then Miss Betsey looked dubious. "Take David with us?" she faltered. "I don't advise it. It was good of you, child, to think of it, and it would be a wonderful opportunity for the boy. But I am obliged to tell you that David is not trustworthy. He spends too many hours alone, and refuses to tell anybody what he is doing. Make him confide in you, or else do not take him away with us. I'll try to find something for the boy to do nearer home."

Madge thought she caught a gleam in Miss Betsey's eyes that revealed a goodly amount of curiosity about David's secret occupations, as much as it did interest in his welfare. She made up her mind that she would not pry into poor David's secrets simply because she had a chance to offer him the opportunity to make his living during the summer.

Holding Dot by one hand and Daisy by the other, Madge appeared at the half-open barn-door, her eyes shining with friendliness.

David was working fiercely. He hated the cleaning of the barn, so he chose to-day to do it as an outlet for his foolish feeling of injury.

"David," exclaimed Madge, "I must call you that, as I don't know your other name, I would like to speak to you." There was no hint of patronage in Madge's manner. She was too well-bred a young woman either to feel or to show it. She really felt no difference between herself and David, except that the boy had never had the opportunities that had been hers.

But David never turned around to answer her. "Speak ahead," he answered roughly. "I'm not deaf. I can hear what you've got to say to me in here all right."

Madge colored angrily. A sound temper had never been her strong point. She had almost forgotten how angry she could be in the two peaceful weeks she had spent with Phil. The hot blood surged to her cheeks at David's rude behavior. The boy had gone on raking the hay into one corner of the barn.

"I certainly shall not speak to you if you can't treat me courteously," she answered coldly. She took the little girls by the hands and walked quietly away from the barn. The babies protested. Their black eyes were wide with interest at the sight of "the big boy." They wished to stay and talk to him.

David put his hand to his throat when Madge was out of sight. He felt as though he were choking, and he knew it was from shame at his own uncivil behavior to the girl who had treated him in such a friendly, gentle fashion. David Brewster was a queer combination. He was enough of a gentleman to know he had treated Madge discourteously, but he did not know how to apologize to her. He glanced around the yard.

Madge had taken the twins and was seated with them under a big apple tree in the back yard. She was making them daisy and clover chains, and she seemed completely to have forgotten the rude boy.

David walked up behind the tree. If Madge saw or heard him, she gave no sign. She was putting a tiny wreath of daisies on Daisy Alden's head and crowning Dot with a wreath of clover.

"Miss," said a boy's embarrassed voice, "I know I was rude to you out in the barn. I am sorry. I was worried about something and it put me in a bad temper. Do you feel that you would be willing to speak to me now?" he asked humbly.

Madge's face cleared. Yet she hesitated. She was beginning to fear that she would be unwise to mention Tom's proposition to David. She knew that Tom Curtis, with his frank, open nature, would have little use for an ugly-tempered, surly youth on board his motor boat. Had she any right to burden Tom with a disagreeable helper?

But David seemed so miserable, so shy and awkward, that Madge's heart softened. Again she felt sorry for the boy, as she had done at her first meeting with him. Whether for good or evil, she made up her mind that David should accompany them on their houseboat excursion.

"Sit down, won't you, David?" she asked gently.

David sat down shyly, with his torn hat between the knees of his patched trousers while Madge explained the situation to him. She told him that she and Phil felt sorry that they were making him lose his place by taking Miss Betsey away. She said that Tom Curtis needed some one to help him with his motor boat, and that he was willing to take David with him if he would be faithful and do the work that Tom required of him. "Mr. Curtis will give you five dollars a week and your expenses if you would care to make the trip with us," concluded Madge.

She was silent for a second. Her eyes were on the pretty twin babies, who were chasing golden-brown butterflies on the grass just in front of them, and screaming joyously at their own lack of success.

"Didn't you hear me, David?" inquired Madge a trifle impatiently.

The boy's face was working. His eyes were brimming with tears. He was bitterly ashamed of them and tried to rub them off with his rough coatsleeve. Then he said in a low voice:

"You mean that you got your friend to consent to take a fellow he knew nothing about on a motor boat trip way down in Virginia, and just for the little work that I can do on his boat? I can't understand it. You see, I've never been twenty miles out of Hartford, and nobody thinks I am much good around here. I know you have done this for me just because you didn't want me to lose my job with Miss Betsey. I could see you were sorry for me the other night, when I couldn't help showing that I cared. Gee-whiz! I wonder how I will ever be able to pay you back?"

Madge laughed. She could see that David had forgotten her and was thinking and talking aloud.

"You've paid me back already," she declared, smiling. "Didn't you help pull me out from under the buggy the other day? You may have saved my life. If old Prince had really tried to run away I might have been killed. Please don't be grateful to me. You aren't obliged to be grateful to any one, though, if you must, why, you can thank Tom Curtis. It is his motor boat that is to tow our houseboat and take us on our new adventures. He is a splendid fellow and I know you will like him. I am sure you will get along nicely with him."

"I'll do the best I can to be worth my keep. You won't be sorry you told your friend Mr. Curtis to take me along," he said huskily.

"It may not be easy for you all the time," added Madge, feeling that she ought to give David some good advice. "There will be four or five young men on board the motor boat, and they may all ask you to wait on them. But I must not preach. I am dreadfully afraid I shall never be able to get on with your cousin, Miss Taylor. You must tell me how to manage her; because, if she and I were to quarrel, it would spoil the whole houseboat trip. I have a very bad temper. I must go back to the house now. Phil and Miss Betsey will wonder what has become of me. But where are those children?" Madge sprang to her feet. The twins had been before her eyes only a few seconds before. Now they had completely disappeared!

David ran toward the barn. Madge searched the yard frantically. The children had not returned to the house.

CHAPTER IV
THE SEARCH

WHERE can they be, David?" asked Madge anxiously. "Do you suppose they have run away?"

"Nothing can possibly have happened to the children in such a few moments. We will find them. They are probably hiding somewhere to tease you."

But though he made a systematic hunt about the yard, he did not find them.

"Dot! Daisy!" called Madge, "it's time to go home. If you'll only come here, I will tell you the nicest fairy story you ever heard."

Madge did not go into the house at once to tell Phil and Miss Betsey of the disappearance of the children. She would surely discover them and it was not worth while to worry Phil. But although she argued within herself that nothing serious could have happened to the babies, she had a premonition of disaster. Only a moment before they had been chasing butterflies. It would seem as though a wicked hobgoblin had come up out of the ground and carried them off.

Next to Miss Taylor's back yard there was another field enclosed by a low stone wall. It would have been easy work for Dot and Daisy to crawl over it, and Madge knew their propensity for getting into mischief. David and Madge clambered hastily over the wall into the field. It was an open one, covered with low, waving grass, where the presence of even little four-year-old girls could be seen at a glance.

The conviction that the children had been mysteriously kidnapped began to grow upon Madge. Yet Miss Betsey Taylor's home was a quarter of a mile distant from any other house, and neither David nor Madge had seen any sign of a tramp. The little captain made up her mind that she must tell Phil. It was no longer fair to keep her chum in the dark. Phil must assist in the search for her sisters.

"Don't be frightened," consoled David, interpreting the look of fear in Madge's eyes. "I promise to find the children for you."

Madge went into the house with slow, dragging steps. She tried to hide her fright, but her face betrayed her. She was utterly wretched. She had come, uninvited, to visit her best friend, and Phil's father and mother had treated her as though she were another grown-up daughter. Now, as a reward, she had lost their beloved babies. For, if Madge had not been talking with David, Dot and Daisy would never have run away from her and disappeared.

Phyllis sprang to her feet when she caught sight of Madge. She had been wondering why her chum had not come in. One look at Madge's white face was enough to convince her that something serious had happened.

"Don't worry so, Madge," comforted Phil, when the girl had stammered out her story, "I'll find those children. Nobody has run off with them. Don't you know that getting themselves lost and frightening people nearly out of their wits is the thing that Dot and Daisy love best in the world?"

Phyllis and Madge ran out of the parlor together, followed more slowly by Miss Betsey, who was not at all sure that she relished so much excitement. Phyllis Alden did not realize how thoroughly Madge and David had looked for the lost babies before her friend had brought the news to her. If she had, Phil would have been more alarmed.

David determined to discover the missing children before Madge returned to the yard. But where else should he seek for them? With a swift feeling of horror, the boy thought of one more possible place. If his surmise should prove true! Poor Madge! David thought of her with a sudden flood of sympathy. Instinctively he realized, after his short acquaintance with her, that she was the type of person who would never recover from such a sorrow as the loss of these children would be.

While David thought he ran. He hoped to make his investigation before Madge and Phil could come into the yard.

Several rods back of the barn in Miss Taylor's back garden there was a disused well which had been closed for several years. A few days before Miss Betsey had sent for a man to have this well reopened. The man had not finished his work. He had gone away, leaving the well open with only a plank across it.

But David was not allowed to inspect the place undiscovered. Madge and Phyllis were not long in finding him. "Look in the barn, won't you?" David called back to the girls. "The children may be hiding under the hay."

Phyllis slipped inside the barn door. But Madge had ransacked the barn too thoroughly to believe that there was a chance of finding the babies there. Besides, she had seen David Brewster's face. He was pale through his sunburn, so she left the barn to Phil and followed at his heels.

"You've an idea what has happened to the children. Please tell me what you think," she pleaded.

The boy shook his head resolutely. "Don't ask questions, I've no time to talk," he answered rudely. Yet David did not mean to be unkind. He only knew that he could not face the look in Madge's eyes should his suspicion prove true. Besides, there was no time to waste. Already they must have waited too long to save the children if the little ones had fallen down the old well.

Instantly David knew. The plank that had lain across the well had fallen over on one side. The children must have stepped on this plank and gone down. David dropped flat on his stomach and peered over into the hole. "Look out!" he cried sharply to Madge, she was so near him.

Madge felt herself reel. The air turned black about her and the earth seemed slanting at her feet, miles and miles away. A feeling of deathly nausea crept over her. Then she pulled herself together. There might yet be hope, and there was surely work to be done. She dropped on the ground beside David.

As they knelt side by side on the edge of the well they heard a little, weak, moaning cry, and straining their eyes distinguished faintly the tops of two curly heads. Madge uttered a cry of relief. As nearly as she could judge, the babies were standing upright in the well with their arms about each other. They were nearly dead with fright and suffocation, but the wonderful instinct of self-preservation had made them continue to keep on their feet. There was not more than a foot of water in the bottom of the well, and Madge believed that the fall had not seriously hurt them.

"Dot! Daisy!" called Madge, trying to speak in natural tones.

Daisy turned a pair of big black eyes to the little light that shone above her. Hanging over the edge of the well she spied her Madge and stretched both tiny arms upward.

"You tumbled into a big hole, didn't you, dears?" soothed Madge cheerfully, although she was trembling. "Stand up just a moment longer, won't you, darlings? Madge is right here and she will not go away. We will have you out of that dark place in a minute."

David had disappeared after his first glance at the children. Madge felt absolutely sure that he would be able to get the babies out of the well within the next few moments. She did not know how and she didn't think. It was her part to keep up the children's courage. Somehow she knew that this strange boy, of whom everybody spoke ill, would justify the curious confidence she had placed in him from their first meeting.

When David returned he brought with him Phil, Miss Betsey, and Jane, the cook. He carried a small clothes basket in his hand with handles at either end and a great coil of heavy rope.

Turning to Madge he said, "One of us must go down in the well. Shall I go, or will it be better for me to draw up the basket? I am the strongest."

For answer Madge took hold of the rope. "Let me go," she begged.

"It is my place," demurred Phyllis, with a white face.

"Phil!" Madge's eyes said all she could not speak. It was her fault that Dot and Daisy had fallen into the well. Could she not be allowed to risk herself to save them?

Phyllis stepped back. During this brief exchange of words David had not been idle. He had knotted his rope securely about Madge's waist.

Over the side of the old well he had seen many loose bricks and open places. With him above to steady her, a plucky girl could manage to climb down the side of the well with small danger to herself.

Madge slipped the rope around one arm. If she fell, she might, with David's assistance, be able to drop down sailor fashion.

She dared not glance down as she began the descent, finding open spaces for her feet and hands along the brick wall. "Steady, steady!" she could hear David's voice cheering her, as foot by foot he let out more of his rope.

David had not trusted to his own strength alone. The rope he guided was in Phil's hands and also those of Jane, the cook.

When Madge was within two feet of the bottom of the well she jumped and gathered little Dot, who had toppled over, in her arms. Daisy was still standing, although she tottered and clung to her rescuer's skirts.

"Let down the basket quickly!" cried Madge. Like a flash the basket swung down. The little captain made haste to lift poor Dot into it. The basket had a rope tied on the handle at each end. Madge could see that David had replaced a heavy plank across the mouth of the well, and that he sat astride it, so as to be able to draw up the basket without striking it against the sides of the well.

Madge took little Daisy in her arms and cuddled her head on her shoulder, so she should not see what was taking place. "Shut your eyes, baby," she pleaded. "We'll soon be out of this dark old place."

Daisy did not answer. The wreath of daisies with which Madge had crowned her little head still hung loosely down among her black curls.

It seemed ages before Dot was safely landed on the ground and gathered in Phil's arms. During that time Madge had never ceased comforting Daisy. But when the basket descended for the second time Daisy refused to get into it. She was too frightened. She clung desperately to Madge and would not unloosen her fat arms from about the girl's neck.

What was to be done? The little captain was afraid to put Daisy in the basket while the little girl fought and struggled. She would probably fling herself out in her fright and be badly hurt. It was almost a miracle the way in which the two babies managed to fall straight down in the well without striking against the sides.

"Can't you coax her, Phil?" asked Madge in desperation. "She is determined not to go into the basket."

But all Phyllis's efforts to persuade her baby sister to return to terra firma via the basket route proved unavailing. Daisy kicked and screamed at the slightest attempt on Madge's part to put her into the basket.

"If you will bring a ladder and lower it into the well I believe I can climb up with Daisy on my back," proposed Madge faintly. The strain was beginning to tell upon her.

"I'll have one down in ten seconds," called David cheerily.

He was back to the edge of the well almost instantly with a long ladder that he had spied leaning against a fruit tree. He cautiously lowered it to the waiting girl.

Madge tested it to see that it was firm, then, setting Daisy down, she bent almost double.

"Climb on Madge's back, dear. Daisy must be very brave. Then we'll go up, up, up the ladder to Sister Dot. Put your arms around Madge's neck as tightly as ever you can," directed the little captain.

The novelty of the situation appealed to Daisy and she fastened her fat little arms about poor Madge's neck in a suffocating clasp. Slowly but surely, in spite of the hampering embrace, Madge climbed steadily to the top, to be met by the firm, reassuring grasp of David's strong hands.

Phil lifted the clinging Daisy from Madge's tired back. The little captain staggered and would have fallen but for David, whose hand on her elbow quickly steadied her.

Then the boy of whom Miss Betsey entertained such unpleasant suspicions, the "ne'er-do-weel" of the community, took charge of the situation with a dignity that surprised even Madge, who believed in him.

"I think it will be best for me to notify Dr. Alden of what has happened. I will telephone him, then drive over and bring him back. It will be better not to let Mrs. Alden know that the children fell into the well. Dr. Alden can look them over. As your mother is recovering from a long illness, she must not be worried or frightened. What do you think of my plan, Miss Alden?"

Phyllis quite approved of the suggestion. She looked at David almost wonderingly. Was this resolute, self-contained young man the surly, unapproachable boy she had always disliked to encounter when calling upon Miss Betsey? She awoke to a tardy realization that whatever faults David Brewster possessed, they were merely on the surface, and that at heart he was a good man and true. And although David never knew it, on that day he made another friend whose friendship was destined to prove as faithful as that of Madge Morton.

That night as the two chums, wrapped in their kimonos, were having a comfortable little session together before going to bed, Phyllis said thoughtfully, "Do you know, Madge, I think David Brewster is splendid. I am afraid I have misjudged him."

"Phil," said Madge with conviction, "David is a man, and I am sure he is good and true at heart, no matter how gruff he may seem on the surface. I asked Tom to take him with us on the trip, and now that he has consented to go, I feel as though I were responsible for him. I know Miss Betsey believes him to be sneaking and undependable. So far, however, I have seen nothing about him that looks suspicious, and I do not believe him to be a sneak. I trust David now, and I am going to keep on trusting him."

CHAPTER V
PULLING UP ANCHOR FOR NEW SCENES

A MOTOR boat ploughed restlessly about near the broad mouth of the Rappahannock River. It flew a red and white pennant, with the initials of the owner, "T. C.," emblazoned on it. The name of the boat, "Sea Gull," was painted near the stern. It was a trim little craft with a fair-sized cabin amidships and was capable of making eight knots an hour at its highest speed.

"Toot, toot, toot, chug, chug, chug!" the whistle blew and the engine thumped. The captain stood with his hand on the wheel, gazing restlessly out over the water.

"I wonder what can have happened?" muttered Tom Curtis impatiently. "Here it is, as plain as the nose on your face: the 'Merry Maid' with four houseboat girls, a chaperon and one other passenger, will join the 'Sea Gull' at the entrance to the Rappahannock River on the southern side of the Virginia shore near Shingray Point, on August first, at ten A.M." Tom looked up from the paper he was reading. "We have the time and the place all right, haven't we, fellows? But where are the girls?"

"Cheer up, old man!" Jack Bolling clapped Tom on the shoulder. "A houseboat is not the fastest vessel afloat. Who knows what kind of tug the girls have had to hire to get them here? And a woman is never on time, anyhow."

"We'll be in luck if the houseboat gets here by to-night, Curtis," argued Harry Sears, another member of the motor boat crew of five youths. "Do slow down; there is no use ploughing around these waters. We had better stay close to the meeting place. It's after twelve o'clock; can't we have a little feed?"

"Here, Brewster, stir around and get out the lunch hamper," ordered George Robinson. "We must all have something to sustain us while we wait for the girls."

David Brewster's face colored at the other's tone of command, but he went quietly to work to obey.

"David," interposed Tom Curtis, "come put your hand on this engine for me, won't you? I will dig in the larder if Robinson is too tired. I know where the stores are kept better than you other chaps do, anyhow."

"Tom Curtis is a splendid fellow," thought David gratefully. "Miss Morton was right. He doesn't treat one like a dog, just because he has plenty of money."

David Brewster and Tom Curtis had traveled down from New York to Virginia together. Their fellow motor boat passengers they had picked up at different points along the way. David had come to understand Tom Curtis pretty well during their trip—better than Tom did David. But then, Tom Curtis was a fine, frank young man with nothing to hide or to be ashamed of. David had many things which he did not wish the public to know.

The houseboat party had arranged to join one another in Richmond. From there they were to go by rail to a point up the Chesapeake Bay, where the "Merry Maid" had been kept in winter quarters since the houseboat trip of the fall before. A tug was to escort the houseboat to the mouth of the Rappahannock River, where they were to meet Tom and his motor launch.

Phyllis Alden had accompanied Madge to "Forest House," so the two girls and Eleanor were not far from Richmond. Miss Jenny Ann Jones and Lillian had come from Baltimore together. But Miss Betsey Taylor took her life in her own hands and traveled alone. She carried only the expenses of her railroad trip in her purse. But in a bag, which she wore securely fastened under her skirt, Miss Betsey had brought a sum of money large enough to last her during the entire houseboat trip, for when a maiden lady leaves her home to trust herself to a frisky party of young people, she should be prepared for any emergency. Miss Betsey also bore in her bag a number of pieces of old family jewelry, which she wore on state occasions.

When luncheon time passed and there was still no sign of the "Merry Maid," Tom Curtis could bear the suspense of waiting no longer.

"Something has happened, or the girls would have been here before this," he declared positively. "Bolling, I am going to leave you and Sears to wait here in the rowboat. I am going to look down the coast."

"All right, old man," agreed the other boys. They did not share Tom's uneasiness. Indeed, as the "Sea Gull" headed down the coast, the three men on board her heard Harry Sears shouting an improvised verse:

"Where, oh, where, is the 'Merry Maid'?
What wind or wave has her delayed?
Our hearts are breaking, our launch is quaking,
Fear and despair are us overtaking,
Where, oh, where——"

The rest of this remarkable effusion was lost to their ears as they glided along.

"It is rather strange that we haven't picked them up yet, isn't it?"

David Brewster said nothing. He was always a silent youth. With Tom's telescope in his hand he stood eagerly scanning the line of the coast as the motor launch ran along near the shore.

"Ho, there!" he cried. "What's that? Look over there!"

Tom shut off speed and hurriedly seized the spy-glass.

There, apparently peacefully resting on the bosom of the water, was an odd craft, gleaming white in the afternoon sun. Tom Curtis at once recognized the "Merry Maid."

No one on board the houseboat noticed the approach of Tom's motor launch until he blew the automatic whistle. Then, with one accord, the four girls rushed to one side of the boat. They made frantic signals, then all began to talk at the same time.

"What's up? Where's your tug?" demanded Tom. "Here you are, as peaceful as clams, while we have been scouring the coast for you."

"Don't scold, Tom," laughed Madge, "and don't refer to us as clams. We are stuck in the mud. Our wretched little tug brought us too near the shore, piled us up here and then went away two hours ago for help. We were so afraid you would go on without us. What can we do?"

While the girls talked Tom, Jack and David had been quietly at work. They had secured the houseboat to the launch by means of their towing ropes. Tom put on all speed. His motor launch tugged and strained forward. The "Merry Maid" did not move. She was a fairly heavy craft, with her large cabin and broad beam. Miss Betsey Taylor and Miss Jenny Ann joined the crowd of anxious watchers on the houseboat deck. Instead of gliding up a peaceful river, gazing at fruitful orchards and lovely old Virginia homesteads through the oncoming twilight, the houseboat crew would have to remain ignominiously on a sand bank until a larger boat came along to pull her off.

Tom tried again. Once more the "Sea Gull" went bravely forward—the length of her towing rope.

The girls were almost in tears. Suddenly Madge laughed. Eleanor and Lillian looked at her reproachfully.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," expostulated Eleanor.

"I don't either, Nellie," agreed Madge. "We ought to cry, we are such geese. Tom! David!" she cried. "You have never pulled up our anchor. Of course we can't get off the sand bank. We forgot to tell you that the captain on the little tug anchored us here to keep us from drifting away. I am so sorry."

In a little while Tom Curtis's motor launch, followed by the "Merry Maid," entered the Rappahannock from the Chesapeake Bay. It was Tom's intention to tow the houseboat along several of the Virginia rivers during their vacation. It looked as though they might have a peaceful excursion with nothing to mar its serenity. But there were five boys and four girls aboard the boats, besides the two older women.

The voyagers did not journey far the first day. It was about sundown when they came along shore near a wonderful peach orchard and it was here that they decided to spend the night. The crew of the "Merry Maid" entertained the crew of the "Sea Gull" at dinner, the young folks spending the evening together. As Tom was about to bid Madge good night she said almost timidly, "Thank you so much, Tom, for being so good to David. I hope he hasn't disappointed you?"

"Oh, he is all right," replied Tom. "He is a queer fellow, though; never has much to say. He has asked me to let him have an hour or so to himself every day that we are on shore. Of course, it is only fair for him to have the time, but why does he wish to go off by himself?"

"I don't know." Madge shook her head disapprovingly. Then she adroitly changed the subject, but she could not help hoping that David would not incur the displeasure of the boys by his mysterious ways. It looked as though the boy she had determined to trust was to prove very troublesome.

CHAPTER VI
WANDERLUST

MISS JENNY ANN, I don't think I can endure her," declared Madge mournfully.

It was late afternoon. The houseboat was gliding serenely along the river bank. Several yards ahead of her puffed the motor launch. Harry Sears and George Robinson were in the kitchen of the houseboat, helping Lillian and Eleanor wash the dinner dishes. Phil sat comfortably in the motor launch, having her usual argument with Jack Bolling. Tom Curtis was steering his launch, with a cloud over his usually bright face. David Brewster was looking after the engine. He was silent and sullen. But unless he was at work this was his ordinary expression.

"You can see for yourself, Miss Jenny Ann," continued Madge, her lips trembling with vexation, "that nothing I can do pleases Miss Betsey. I am just as polite to her as I know how to be, but she just hates me. According to what she says, everything that goes wrong is my fault. I have a great mind to leave the houseboat and let you and the other girls take the trip. It isn't much fun for the rest of the party to have Miss Betsey and me quarrel all the time. It is unpleasant for everyone, isn't it?"

Miss Jenny Ann did not answer. Madge caught hold of her impulsively.

"Do scold or preach, whichever you like, Jenny Ann," she pleaded, "but please answer me. It is not polite to be so silent."

"What is it now?" Miss Jenny Ann inquired teasingly.

The little captain's face sobered. "It isn't a little thing this time, like my putting the sheet on Miss Betsey's bed wrong side up. It's very important. Miss Betsey says," whispered Madge in Miss Jenny Ann's ear, although they were standing some distance away from any one else, "that nearly every day for the past week some of her money has disappeared out of her wretched old money bag. Not very much at a time. First she noticed that three dollars had gone, then five, and now it's ten. She seems to think that I ought to know how it happens. She doesn't want to worry you about it. Of course, I know she is mistaken," cried Madge indignantly. "She just does not know how much money she had. There hasn't been a single person on this boat this whole week except our party."

Miss Jenny Ann looked serious. "Does Miss Taylor suspect any one?" she asked carelessly, not glancing at Madge.

Madge's cheeks reddened. "Miss Betsey says she does not suspect any one, but she spoke darkly of poor David Brewster. She says he never took anything that she knows of when he was on her farm, but that his father was almost a tramp. He came up to New England from goodness-knows-where, and every now and then he disappears and is gone for months at a time. Miss Taylor believes that when Tom ties up our boats in the afternoons, and David goes off and leaves everybody, it is his vagabond blood showing in him. Isn't it cruel to make the poor fellow responsible for his father's sins? I am going to stand up for him through thick and thin. Coming, Miss Betsey," answered Madge cheerfully, in response to a call from the tyrannical old spinster.

Miss Jenny Ann remained by herself a few moments longer. She wondered why Miss Taylor required more attention from poor Madge than she did from any of the other girls. It was certain that she liked her least. But Miss Jenny Ann shrewdly suspected that prim Miss Betsey thought that their impetuous captain needed discipline and had set herself to administer it to her. About David Brewster Miss Jenny Ann was more worried. She did not like the lad. No one did. He was the discordant element in their whole party. Lillian and Eleanor fought shy of him. Phyllis was kind to him but had little to say to him, and the boys in the motor launch, except Tom, treated him with a kind of scornful coolness. The boy was neither a gentleman nor a servant. It was small wonder that generous-hearted Madge championed him. Miss Jenny Ann understood, from Madge's allusion to David's father, one reason why Madge was kind to the boy.

Miss Jenny Ann Jones and Miss Betsey Taylor shared one of the houseboat staterooms. The four girls, to their great joy, bunked together in the other.

It was exactly a half hour before Miss Betsey would let Madge come out on deck again. She wished her money carefully counted and a new place discovered for concealing it. Madge was strangely patient, for she had had a long talk with Dr. Alden before she left Hartford. He had told her that she would have a good deal to bear from Miss Betsey. Yet, if she wished to give the pleasure of the houseboat trip to her friends and to herself, she must remember the tiresome old adage, "What is worth having is worth paying for." So far Madge had paid with little grumbling.

This afternoon, as she reappeared on deck, her red lips were pouting and her cheeks were a deeper color. Her resentment against Miss Betsey was at its height.

No one noticed the little captain standing alone on deck. Usually she would have thought nothing of it, but this evening she was tired and cross. It did not seem fair for her to have to take all the trouble with their houseboat boarder on her shoulders. She could hear Lillian, Nellie, Harry Sears and George Robinson singing on the upper deck of the little houseboat. Phyllis was talking busily to Jack Bolling and did not even glance over toward Madge from her seat on the launch. Madge knew that Tom was angry because she had not joined him in the motor boat earlier in the afternoon, when the boats had put in to the shore. She had not been able to go on account of Miss Betsey, but she certainly had no intention of explaining anything to Tom. He could think what he chose.

The two boats were in the habit of landing several times during a day's cruise. Ordinarily they went ashore just before sunset, and the boys and girls had their dinner together in some sequestered place. They then spent the night with the houseboat and motor boat at anchor. But this evening it was so lovely, gliding along the face of the river, with its hills on one side and meadows and orchards on the other, that Miss Jenny Ann requested Tom not to land until just about bed-time.

Madge stood looking at the sunset for a few minutes. There was nothing to do and no one wished to talk to her. She would go to bed. A little later she tumbled into her bed and shed a few tears, she was so sorry for herself. She did not waken until the other three girls came in for the night at about ten o'clock.

"Is there anything the matter, Madge?" whispered Phil before she crept into the berth above her chum. "We missed you dreadfully."

Madge gave Phyllis a repentant kiss. She knew that she had been absurd. But now that Phyllis had awakened her, she could not go back to sleep again. It was a hot August night, with a moon almost in the full. Not a breath of air was stirring along the river. The moonlight shone through the little cabin window, flooding the room with its radiance. Madge felt that if she could only get a breath of air, she might be able to go to sleep. Just now she was suffocating. Yet the other girls were breathing gently. She slipped softly into her clothes, put on a long light coat, tucked her hair under a boy's cap and stole silently out on the houseboat deck. All was solemn and still. She was the only person awake on either of the two boats. An almost tropical heat made the moon look red and ominous. Madge was oppressed by its mysterious reflection on the water. The shore seemed peaceful, deserted. She went noiselessly down the gang plank. She walked up and down the bank, keeping the boats in sight. However, the shore was not quiet. The ceaseless hum of the August insects set her nerves on edge.

"Katy did, Katy did," the noise was insistent. To Madge's ears the name was transposed. "David did, David did," it rang. Yet she did not really believe that David had stolen Miss Betsey Taylor's money. If not David, who else? Surely the money could never be found in the new hiding place where she and Miss Taylor had stored it that afternoon. It was quite secure from thievish fingers.

It was lonely along the river bank. The sudden hooting of an owl sent her flying toward the houseboat. She waited a second before going aboard. The "Water Witch" was floating peacefully on the water, tied to the rail of the "Merry Maid!"

All at once the passionate love which Madge felt for the water, that she believed to be an inheritance, woke in her. It was wrong and reckless in her, yet the desire to be alone out there on the river was uncontrollable. She went swiftly to their little rowboat, and without making a single unnecessary sound she rowed straight out into the moonlight that streamed across the water.

No one heard her or saw her leave the shelter of the two boats. Only David, who was also awake, thought for an instant that he caught the splash of a pair of oars skimming past the motor launch. He supposed it to be some idle oarsman who lived along the river, and he never glanced out of his cabin window.

Madge rowed for more than an hour in the golden moonlight, meeting no one. A cool breeze sprang up. Her restlessness, impatience and suspicion passed away. She felt that she would like to move on forever up this silent river, near her well-loved Virginia shores. It never dawned upon her how far she had gone, or that she might be missed, or that the river would be dark when the moon went down. Neither did she consider that she was not familiar with the spot where the houseboat and motor boat were anchored. Tom had chosen the landing place for the night after she had gone into her stateroom.

For a long time Madge rowed on, regardless of time. She was dreaming of her own father. To-night she felt that she would find him. The night seemed trying to convey to her the message, "He lives."

It was nearly one o'clock when the moon went down. Madge felt, rather than saw, the darkness on the water. She was so oblivious to time that she believed for a few minutes that the moon had only gone behind a cloud. At last she realized that it was now time for her to turn back. She had been rowing in the middle of the river, where the water was deep, and she was unfamiliar with the line of the shore. Yet she knew that here and there along either bank of the river there were shoals and shallow places where rocks jutted out of the water. Once or twice Tom steered them past places in the river where there were falls and swift eddies in the current. Now she awoke to the fact that she was in danger. She could go down the river in the center of the stream as she had come up. But in the black darkness she could not pull in close to the river bank without nearing perilous places. Yet, unless she kept near the shore, how could she ever spy either the houseboat or the motor launch?

Madge rowed slowly and cautiously along. She tried to keep at a safe distance from the land while she strained her eyes for a glimmer of light that might come from either one of their boats. She was growing tired, for she was beginning to feel the effects of her long row. Her arms and back ached. All at once she became stupidly sleepy. She wondered dimly what on earth Miss Jenny Ann and the girls would do if they discovered that she had disappeared. What would Miss Betsey Taylor think of her now, when she learned that she, Madge Morton, had gone out on the river alone at night without a word to any one?

Madge sleepily pulled on her oars. She wished that she had persuaded Phil to come out on the water with her. Now the loneliness of the deserted river began to oppress her. She could have fallen over in the boat from sheer exhaustion. Through the darkness she suddenly saw a flickering light. Thank goodness, she was home at last! The light came from the left bank of the river, where their boats were moored. Madge rowed joyfully toward it. A little further in she saw that the light was on land. She had seen only its reflection in the water.

After another half hour's steady pulling Madge believed that she must have passed by their boats. Surely she could not have gone so far up the river as she had rowed down. She turned her boat and began to retrace her way, then drew in a few yards nearer the shore. Danger or no danger, she must not pass the houseboat by again. She wondered if she would have to stay out on the water until the dawn came to show her the way home. She would have to cease rowing and let the boat drift. She was too tired to keep on. She was growing so drowsy. All at once the "Water Witch" trembled violently. It gave a forward leap in the dark and went downward. Madge was thrown roughly forward. But she kept a firm grasp on her oars. She could not see, yet she knew exactly what had happened. Her boat had gone over some falls in the river. There was nothing for her to do but to try to stay in her boat. The "Water Witch" might overturn, or else right herself, at the end of her downward plunge.

The little skiff did neither. At the end of the falls she was caught in a swift whirlpool. Crouched in the boat, with her teeth clenched and her eyes watching the white spray that she could see even in the darkness, Madge felt her boat rotate like a wheel. She had never let go her oars. Now she braced herself with all her strength and gave one forward, final pull. The "Water Witch" leaped ahead. It was safely out of the eddy and in the current. But Madge's oar struck against a rock. It snapped in two and the lower half went floating with the stream. There was a grating sound, then she felt her boat ground between two rocks and stick fast.

Ahead the river seemed to gurgle and splash alarmingly. There might be other falls and whirlpools in her course. Madge had sense enough to know when she was beaten. If she pushed out from the rocks, where her boat was caught, with her single oar, she might find herself in far worse danger. She was grateful that the "Water Witch" had run aground.

Madge lay down in the bottom of her boat. She would wait until the daylight came and see what was best to be done. She did not mean to go to sleep, for she realized her peril. She idly watched a single star that shone through the clouds, then her heavy eyelids closed and she fell asleep to the sound of the water beating against the side of her skiff.

CHAPTER VII
THE RESCUE

WHEN Madge opened her eyes the sun was shining into them. It was already broad daylight. Her boat was no longer held fast between rocks. In the night it had made its own way out and had floated toward the land. It was now only a few yards from the shore. With her one oar Madge pushed herself gently toward land.

Hills rose up along the river bank. The farmhouses lay farther back, she supposed. Certainly she had not the faintest idea where she was. The hills were thickly covered with scrub oaks and pines. She had not landed in a friendly spot. It was far more deserted than any place that she had ever noticed along the Rappahannock. At least, so she thought in the gray dawn of the August morning. Yet she knew that there were plenty of kind people who would be glad to help her if she could get over the hills to their homes.

From the appearance of Madge's clothes she might easily have been mistaken for a tramp. Her long coat was wet to her ankles and her shoes and stockings were muddy. She had long since lost her little cap and her hair was rough and tumbled from her night's sleep in the boat, while her face was white and haggard. Instead of following the line of the river, where she was sure to find some life stirring in another hour or so, Madge foolishly pushed up over the hill. She did not find a path, so she might have guessed that she was off the beaten track. She must have walked up the hill for half a mile when she saw a sight that at last gave her hope. An old, broken-down horse was tethered to a tree, eating grass. Surely he was a sign-post to some human habitation farther on.

Madge spied a cornfield to the left of her, though some distance off. She knew that the Virginia farmers cultivated the low hills for their crops, and that she was near some house. She sniffed the fresh morning air. A delicious odor wafted toward her, the smell of boiling coffee, which came from the thickest part of the hillside, away to the right of the cornfield.

Madge made straight for it. She had to push aside branches and underbrush, and the place was farther off than she supposed, but she found it at last. Seated on the ground before a small fire was an old woman, the oldest the little captain had ever seen. She was weather-beaten and brown, withered like a crumpled autumn leaf. She was roasting something in the fire and muttering to herself. A little farther on a man was drinking coffee from a quart cup. They were rough-looking people to come across in the woods. But Madge knew that in the harvest season many tramps and gypsies traveled about through Virginia, living on the crops of the fruitful land. They were usually harmless people, so she felt no fear of the strangers. They had no tent, but a few logs with branches over them formed a sort of hiding place.

"Please," began Madge timidly, "will you tell me where I am?"

The man sprang up and rushed toward her with a big stick in his hand. He seemed not so angry as frightened. The little captain's appearance disarmed his suspicions. He dropped his stick to the ground. The strange girl was a gypsy or tramp herself.

"Will you give me some coffee?" asked Madge pleadingly. She was beginning to feel weak and faint.

With the instant hospitality of the road the man passed Madge his own quart can. She took it, shuddering a little, but she was too thirsty to hesitate. She held the cup to her lips and drank. Then she went over and dropped down on the ground by the side of the old woman, who, although her eyes were fastened on the girl, had never ceased to mutter to herself. Madge began telling the story of her night's adventure.

"I haven't any money with me," she declared as she finished her story, "but if the man will get an oar and take me down the river to my friends, I will pay him whatever he thinks is right. I dragged my rowboat up on the shore not very far from here. I must return to my friends at once."

The old woman looked at the man questioningly. Madge's eyes were also on him. It did not dawn on her that the fellow could have any reason for refusing her simple request.

The man shook his head doggedly. "I can't row," he announced.

"Oh, that does not matter," replied Madge. "If you will get me an oar and come with me, I can do the rowing. I am rested now."

The man grunted unintelligibly, then went on with his breakfast. He paid no further attention to Madge. The old woman continued her curious muttering.

"Won't you try to find me an oar?" asked Madge again.

The man shook his head. His face darkened with anger.

"Then I might as well leave you," declared Madge haughtily. "If you are so unaccommodating, I will look for some one else." She struggled wearily to her feet to continue her search. Her body still ached with the fatigue.

"Don't be rough with her," the old crone spoke from behind Madge.

The young girl felt her arms roughly seized and drawn back. She was forced to the ground. She struggled at first, but she was powerless. The man took a small rope and bound her feet together so that she could not move them. The ropes were not tight. The fellow did not wish to hurt her, but merely to prevent her getting away.

"You can't leave this place by day, Miss," he announced quietly. "I can't have anybody following you back here and running me down. When night comes I'll let you go."

Madge bit her lips. Night! Once more she must wander alone in the darkness in a vain search for her lost friends. What would they think if a day, as well as a night, passed with no sign of her?

Her big blue eyes were dark with grief and protest. "Please let me go," she entreated. "I promise, on my honor, that I will never show any one your hiding place, or say that I have seen you. I must get back to my friends, they will be so frightened." She was shaking with terror and anger, but she struggled to keep back her tears. Surely the man must relent and let her go back to the houseboat.