Nancy Brandon’s Mystery

Nancy Brandon’s
Mystery

By
LILLIAN GARIS

Author of
“NANCY BRANDON”

WHITMAN PUBLISHING CO. RACINE, WISCONSIN

Copyright, MCMXXV, by
MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY
Springfield, Massachusetts

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

NANCY BRANDON:
IDEALIST

CHAPTER I
JUST A LITTLE LOVE

They both were carefully folding garments—Nancy sort of caressed the few dainty little silk things while her mother placed tissue paper between the folds of her tan tailored skirt, and then laid it gently in the steamer trunk.

“I can’t help feeling a little guilty, Nancy dear,” she murmured. “To go all the way over there without my darling daughter.” The next garment was laid down, and two loving eyes encompassed the girlish figure before her.

“You know I wouldn’t go, anyway,” Nancy bravely answered. “I’m going to save my trip to Europe, until—until—later,” she faltered.

“You shall have it,” declared her mother firmly, “and only the importance of this trip to my business—”

“Of course I know that, Mums,” and Nancy forgot the packing long enough to fold two prompt arms about her mother’s neck. “You’ll come back so wise with all your foreign cataloging, that you’ll be made chief of the reference department. Then I’ll go to college—maybe; although I would so much rather go to art school.”

The young mother smiled indulgently. “College will not interfere with your art ambitions, dear,” she explained. “But there’s time enough to decide all that. What’s worrying me now, is leaving you for this long, unknown summer.”

“That’s just it,” Nancy hurried to add. “It is unknown. It seems to me everything happens in summer. Winter is just one school-day after another, but summer! What can’t happen in summer?”

Dancing around with a wild pretense of gaiety, Nancy was dropping this article and picking up that, in her efforts to assist with the European packing; but even the most uninformed stranger would easily have guessed that the impending separation was disquieting, if not actually alarming to her, as well as to her mother.

Mrs. Brandon, Nancy’s mother, was being sent abroad in the interest of an educational quest, being carried on by the library which employed her; and besides Nancy there was Ted. Ted the small brother, so important and so loving a member of the little group. But summer for a boy like Ted merely meant the selection of the best camp, with the most trustworthy counsellor and the best established reputation. That, with his little trunk, his brown suits and his endless wood’s-tools, made up Ted’s schedule and outfit, without a possible flaw in the simple arrangements.

Not that he didn’t sniffle, as Nancy whispered to Miss Manners, because he did, every single time he looked at the last picture he, Nancy, and his mother stood against the old tree for, while Manny snapped it. More than that, Nancy had seen him take Nero, his dog, down to the pond twice in one day, the day before he left for camp, although Nero could not have needed two baths, with soap and a rub down, in one day.

But Ted was gone now, and there remained but one more night and two hours of the next day before Mrs. Brandon also should be gone.

The thought was appalling. Gone for two whole months while Nancy would be visiting her rich but unknown cousin Rosalind.

The day before any important event is usually a time of anxiety or of joyous expectation, for the joy, or even the fear of anticipation, is a well known preliminary condition. So it was this which Nancy and her mother were experiencing.

The daughter was by no means an unusual girl, for all girls are remarkable in their own peculiar way. Nancy was dark, her eyes having the same tint as her hair—when one regarded their mere color, but looking into them or having Nancy throw out their full powers upon another, gave the quiet little pools such glints and flashes, that their color scheme became quite secondary in actual valuation. Laughter seemed to wait in one corner while concern was hidden just opposite, for Nancy Brandon was a girl of many moods, original to the point of recklessness, defiant of detail where that might interfere with some new and novel idea, but always sincere.

It was this last saving quality that endeared Nancy to her many friends, for who can resist a perfectly honest girl, unselfish, and unspoiled? Her prettiness was a matter of peculiar complement, for being tall she was correspondingly thin and supple, being dark she had a lovely olive skin with little patches of rose color, and her hair—well, her hair had been long, curly, and her mother’s pride, but Nancy was now determined to have it bobbed—some day soon!

“It is not only old fashioned,” she had argued with her mother, “but barbaric. American girls are not going to be ape-ish any longer. You’ll see.”

To which the mother had listened reasonably and had given Nancy permission to get her hair cut if she chose—after she reached the summer home of her cousin Rosalind. This qualification of the much argued plan was so fixed because Rosalind had wonderful hair and, said Mrs. Brandon, Nancy might not like to be without any, or much, in contrast.

“I suppose it will be queer in the big house,” Nancy interposed without need of elucidation. “Big houses always are queer and—spooky.”

Mrs. Brandon laughed lightly at that. “I’m glad you’re not timid, Nance,” she said, “for the old place must seem rather uncanny by this time. But it was beautiful, very beautiful when your Aunt Katherine lived. Of course, Aunt Betty is so much younger—”

“And a step-wife to Uncle Fred,” jerked Nancy. “I always think that step-wives are up-ish and put on a lot of airs. I’m sure Rosalind thinks so too.”

“You mean second wife to Uncle Fred and stepmother to Rosalind,” corrected Mrs. Brandon. “Rosa is just about the age to be rebellious—”

“And she’s so—awfully fat.”

All this was merely the going over of well known details, concerning the big house and its occupants, forming the background of Nancy’s prospective summer. For she was to visit Rosalind Fernell at Fernlode, in the New Hampshire mountains, and Rosalind was best known as being “awfully fat.” True, she was also step-daughter to Mrs. Frederic Fernell, the lovely little and very young wife of Mr. Fernell of the famous woolen mill company. But to Nancy, Rosalind seemed unfortunate because of both these conditions; being fat and being a step-daughter were inescapable hardships, thought she.

Letter after letter had poured out Rosalind’s miseries, in fact it was because her troubles were presented by the cousin as being really acute, that Mrs. Brandon hesitated long before deciding to let Nancy visit her. But the big hearted Uncle Frederic, in his letters pointed out what appeared to be the real truth of the situation, namely: that Rosalind was rather spoiled from being alone so much, and, of course, Betty, his young wife, couldn’t possibly make a companion of a little spoiled child, so—

“I’m sure to love Rosalind,” Nancy again reflected, “because she seems so frank and honest. Being fat isn’t a crime. She can’t help that.” This decision, merely a repetition of her usual conclusion, was being reached as a sequel to Uncle Frederic’s last letter.

“Mother,” Nancy began, bravely attempting to banish the loneliness that even now seemed to foreshadow herself and her charming young mother, “do tell me once more, just once more, about Orilla. Is she Rosalind’s cousin?”

“No. Orilla is really the daughter of a nurse who was with Uncle Fred’s first wife, your Aunt Katherine, during her long illness. Orilla lived at Fernlode, and naturally felt it should always be her home. In fact, she even felt that she should have been the proverbial Cinderella, but there was no such idea in the minds of Uncle Fred or Aunt Katherine. Mrs. Rigney, Orilla’s mother, had been very generously paid for her services, and Orilla’s education was also provided for; but the girl seems to hold a bitter grudge against your new Aunt Betty—quite as if uncle Fred’s marriage to her had cut off Orilla’s hopes, you know.”

“Oh, yes,” murmured Nancy. “I can understand that. But I don’t see why Rosa bothers with her.”

“She is, I believe, a rather persistent young lady and it is she who bothers Rosa. However, dear, don’t you worry about that angle of Uncle Fred’s affairs. Just make up your mind to have a wonderful time and so soothe my conscience for leaving you.”

Followed moments, minutes, little hours of tender endearments. The mother cautioning, telling, advising, reminding Nancy of so many and such various possibilities; the daughter questioning—just that, and only with the loving look from the soft, dark eyes, the appeal from her trembling lips, the protection begged by her eager young arms; for Nancy was now quite conscious of the fact that her mother, the great, the wonderful fortress against every possible and every impossible evil, was about to be withdrawn from her life for a time. But time didn’t seem to matter. Two months or two years; it was just the fact, the unavoidable disaster that confronted her.

“Your hat box holds as much as a suitcase,” said Nancy, laying very tenderly into the round, black box, one more pair of nice, white silk stockings, Nancy’s extra gift. “Be sure to wear your black and white felt on the steamer, Mums. You look stunning in that hat.”

“All right, sweet-heart, I’ll remember,” promised the mother, who herself was busy with Nancy’s things. “I’m glad your trunk goes today. Somehow it is easier to attend to mine—”

“Oh, yes. Hum-m-m-hum. You want me out of the way first. But, really, I think it cheating not to let me see you off,” grumbled Nancy in pretty pretense.

“Now, you know, dear—”

“’Course I do. I’m just teasing you, Mumsey. I wouldn’t really want to get mixed up with your party. They might sweep me away and put goggles on me, to match me up with the library high-brow folks. When a girl’s mother is made a librarian delegate, I suppose,” sighed Nancy affectedly, “she ought to wear goggles anyway.”

“Don’t go making fun of my—peers,” cautioned Mrs. Brandon in the same bantering manner. “I tell you, my dear, if it were not for the library we wouldn’t any of us be taking a vacation. There’s the postman now. And I can see Ted’s postcard coming!”

“Four of them!” shouted Nancy, who had already made hold the bright pictured messages. “Why four, all at once?”

“Laid over,” laconically answered the postman. “Those camps let their mail pile up, I’ll tell you.”

But Nancy was deciphering the boy’s scrawl which, when classed as handwriting, was never model, but now, classed as his first message home from his first week at camp, amounted to perfectly ideal “broad-casting.”

They read and re-read, Nancy finding little secret words sticking on the canoe sails and peeping out of, what might have been a cloudburst, if the postcard had not carried with it the other explanation. This read “Beautiful Lake Tuketo by Moonlight” and it was the moonlight effect that was so apt to be misleading.

“He’s all right, at any rate,” remarked the mother, thus betraying her anxieties. “And he seems to be having a good time,” she sighed relievedly.

“Trust Ted for that,” Nancy reminded her. “But what an awful looking lot of boys! Just see my card! They look like a comedy parade.”

“Why Nancy! They’re fine looking little chaps, I’m sure,” defended Mrs. Brandon. “But I suppose that picture was taken to show the raising of Old Glory, not as a beauty contest illustration.”

“’S’cuse me,” murmured Nancy. “Of course, they’re—darlings, every one of them, but I wouldn’t swap our Ted for—the whole bunch!”

“Nancy—Brandon!!”

“Yes-sum!” confessed Nancy, glorifying in her pretended ungrammatic freedom.

CHAPTER II
AN INCIDENTAL EXPLOSION

Even the most difficult tasks are finally accomplished, and now Nancy was actually riding towards Boston. The details of closing up their little home had been rather confusing, especially as each member of the small family was starting out in a different direction, but it was all done at last, and soon Nancy would cross Boston and take the Maine line out toward New Hampshire.

It seemed so unnecessary for any one to meet her at the South Station and taxi with her over to the North Station, but there was Miss Newton, a friend who had visited the Brandons and who lived almost in Boston. With her, Nancy’s mother had arranged, both for crossing the big city and having lunch, so that there could be no possible danger in her daughter’s journey. Also, after lunch in the upstairs station restaurant, Miss Newton, a lively young woman who seemed just like a girl to Nancy, insisted upon making up a little box of fruit for the train journey.

“Never can tell about these long afternoon rides,” said Miss Newton, when she bought five more blue plums. “They may side-track you and you’ll be glad to have a fruity supper along with you.”

Nancy expressed her gratitude, of course, and as the Boston and Maine afternoon train steamed out, she didn’t feel quite so lonely without her mother, because of Miss Newton’s jolly waving and pleasant little send-off.

The train was crowded. Many mothers and children seemed to have been on shopping tours. Naturally Nancy was concerned with the prospect before her, for since Rosalind’s letters were so effusively pre-welcoming and so hysterically anxious about what she termed, “the troubles and trials at Fernlode,” Nancy could form no opinion of the strange household. She knew she was going to be shy of that important new, stylish, beautiful Aunt Betty, for the reputation she had obtained was enough to strike awe into the heart of any girl visitor. Of Uncle Frederic she knew positively that she just loved him, for he had visited her own home late last fall, and he was “a king” as Ted expressed it. Rosalind had been away at boarding school all the time, it seemed to Nancy, so the young cousins had never met, for even Rosalind’s vacations had been usually spent abroad. This year, however, she had insisted upon remaining at home, although her father and step-mother were to sail shortly.

But now Nancy’s train sped on, and the flying landscape, though novel after the big factories and the bridges were passed, held small interest for the young summer tourist. She noticed that a woman with two small boys had bought those silly little boxes of ice-cream with the foolish tin spoons, and their delight in lapping up the stuff was rather amusing. It was funny, too, to see the people spill water cups along the aisle, and when a very stout man dozed off, and let his bald head tap a lady on her bead-bedecked shoulder, Nancy indulged in an audible titter while the ice-cream boys shouted loud enough to wake up the indecorous gentleman.

Such trifling incidents helped to while away the time, and after the big mill dam was passed, which according to the timetable indicated the state line of Massachusetts and New Hampshire, with somehow touching on a corner of Maine, then Nancy knew the journey was almost over.

The afternoon was cool and pleasant, for early June was still behaving beautifully, and Nancy was not sorry that she had taken her mother’s advice and worn her school suit of blue serge.

“I suppose,” she ruminated, “Rosalind’s clothes will be gor-gee-ous.” This visioned her own limited outfit. “But being so fat it must be hard getting clothes. They all have to be made to order, of course.”

It was at this juncture that the little old-fashioned woman, in the seat opposite Nancy, spread her ginghamed self out in the aisle, in order to cope more freely with the over-crowded bag she was struggling to close. Her efforts were so violent, and her groans so audible, that everybody around took frank notice of her. First, she would get between the two seats, backing to that in front, and trudge away at the helpless, hopeless carry-all. Then, she would put the bag on the floor and work from the aisle. Finally, she literally threw up her hands and looked comically at Nancy.

“Ain’t it the mischief, sissy?” she said suddenly. “I got to get off with that bag bulged wide open.”

Nancy laughed outright. “Sissy” was such an old-fashioned name to be called. Then she looked critically at the recalcitrant bag.

“Maybe I could do it,” she suggested, although she instinctively felt like calling the car man to help. Yet the funny little country woman, with her checked gingham dress, her bronzed skin and her perfectly useless hat, that merely rested on the top of her frowsy head, was smiling so friendly, that Nancy felt impelled to offer personal aid.

So she stepped over and tackled the bag. It was too full, much too full, of course, and the articles in it were the non-crushable kind, hard and firm. Surely the biggest opponent to the catch and its clasp meeting was a bottle, for it bulged out in one place as fast as Nancy tried to push it in at another.

“I’m afraid I can’t close it,” Nancy admitted reluctantly. “Couldn’t you take anything out?”

The woman pulled her face into such funny crinkles, it looked as if she was winking all over it. Then she made queer noises, but they could not be called words, and at last a man who had been watching the performance, over his reading glasses, dropped his paper and silently offered his services.

He was a very dignified gentleman, and he readily acknowledged Nancy’s presence, although he did not directly address her. The little woman was being regarded as very much out of order, and truth to tell she was very generally disturbing the peace in that end of the car.

But now the man, with his strong hands and white shirt-cuffs, undertook to conquer the rebel bag. He would plainly have no nonsense, would make short work of it, for his face was set with a look of active determination.

Once, twice, he tried to snap it shut. Then—there was something like an explosion!

Splash! A perfect fountain of red liquid shot straight up in the air!

“Oh, mercy!” yelled the owner of the bag. “There goes Martha’s grape juice!”

And go it did, apparently as far and farther than even good home-made grape juice is supposed to travel, for it covered the face and shirt front of the determined man, it all but shampooed the blonde head in the next seat front, it managed, somehow, to include Nancy in its area, for across the aisle shot a thin but virulent little stream, and while one party was trying to dodge it another would fall into its furious path.

“A bomb! A bomb!” yelled one of the ice cream boys joyfully.

“Maybe it’s a bandit’s hold-up,” yelped the other boy, hopefully.

“It’s my lovely grape juice and it’s working—” moaned the woman in the gingham dress. But what she meant by “working” was not what the spectators were thinking of. She meant effervescing, while they simply saw liquid fireworks shooting around the car.

It was all over in a few moments, but the well intentioned man could not erase the stains from his expansive shirt front—it was hard enough to get the grape juice out of his eyes.

The blonde woman, whose bobbed head had been caught in the shower, seemed the one most injured, and she took no trouble to restrain her indignation!

“The idea! Carrying that stuff around!” she argued. “Just imagine! Black and blue grape juice,” and she swabbed her head frantically with all the handkerchiefs she could resurrect from pockets and hand bags. Blonde hair dyed wine color did look odd.

“I’m awfully sorry,” the gingham woman admitted. “It was just a present from my cousin Martha—”

“Then, why didn’t you hire a truck instead of buying a railway ticket,” fired back the crimson-spotted blonde. “Seems to me—” But her further arguments were lost in the sudden stopping of the train and the hurried getting off of the unfortunate grape juice owner.

She made opportunity for a smile to Nancy, however, as she edged her way out, and as she left the train it was the boy who had shouted “bomb” at the accident who pegged her the cork of that bottle. Strange to say, the woman caught the stopper, and bravely took the almost empty bottle from the rebellious bag, banged the cork in firmly, and was then on her way—with the bottle in one hand and the famous bag in the other.

Everyone’s face seemed to betray amusement, for during the entire episode the little woman had shown real good nature. First, she was patient, as well as determined, in attempting to close the obstreperous bag; next, when the mighty all-knowing man went to her assistance and caused the grape juice explosion, she only smiled and herself took the blame for his mistake.

All of this wavered in Nancy’s mind, and with it came one of those unaccountable little flickering thoughts, unbidden and unreasonable. It suggested a future meeting of Nancy and the gingham woman.

“But wherever would I and why ever should I meet her again?” Nancy deliberated. “She’s probably just some farmer lady, and this station is miles from Craggy Bluff.”

The incident served admirably to brighten the last hour of her journey, and even the wonderful capers of a late afternoon sun, gyrating over the New England hills, failed to hold interest now, as a long train trip wound up the miles, like a boy’s fish line after a long waiting and a poor catch.

Nancy’s bag and hat box were made hold of even before the trainman called out the station, and now that she had actually arrived at Rosalind’s summer place, Nancy caught her breath, apprehensively.

“With mother in Europe and Manny far off, I’ll have to like it,” she reflected, “but then, why shouldn’t I?” Her question poised itself boldly before her, for somehow even the lure of luxury was not altogether reassuring.

It was now almost seven o’clock, and the young tourist noticed no one preparing to leave the train at the approaching station. True, there were so few passengers left, there might be individual stations for each one of them; but Craggy Bluff was sure to be exclusive.

The very word as she thought of it, rather terrified Nancy, for, after all, she enjoyed folks, loved companionship and appreciated girlhood’s privileges.

“But Rosalind and—Orilla,” she was forced to reflect, “they will be good company—I hope.” It was Orilla’s personality that puzzled her, for the accounts of that queer girl had been anything but flattering.

“Craggy Bluff!” called out the trainman, who promptly approached Nancy and took up her bag. This had been arranged for by the thoughtful Miss Newton, when the train was leaving Boston, so that there was no danger of Nancy mistaking her destination, or being inconvenienced by her baggage.

She stepped from the train, thanked the trainman and took her bag, just as a smiling girl ran up to her.

It was Rosalind! Fat and rosy, jolly and rollicking.

“Nancy!” she cried happily.

“Rosalind!” responded the traveller.

“Oh, how ducky! I just couldn’t wait. Over here. Chet!” called Rosalind to the chauffeur, who promptly hurried along for the bags. Rosalind continued to puff and putter. “Nancy! Isn’t it too darling to have you come?” Her arm was wound around Nancy’s waist. “Do you like the woods? And the water? And the hills? We even have wild beasts out here, but I never have hunted alone. Here’s our car. Jump right in. Chet, I must call at the post office.” Thus rattled on the exuberant Rosalind, as Nancy formed her first pleasant opinion of the important cousin.

Following these preliminaries, Nancy did manage to say a few words. But they didn’t mean anything, much, other than being pleasant words happily spoken.

The cousins were at last becoming acquainted, and while Nancy knew she was sure to love the impulsive Rosalind, Rosalind felt she was simply “dead in love” with Nancy, all of which favored the hopeful summertime ahead.

CHAPTER III
COUSIN AND COZ

Winding in and out of wooded drives and tree tunneled roads, as they went from the station, Nancy sensed something of the luxury she had so wondered about.

Yes, it was wonderful to cover distance that way, and the distance itself was wonderful, because Craggy Bluff was one of those works of Nature varied in detail from the finest ferns to the shaggiest giant oaks, and the very craggiest gray granite rocks to the daintiest pearl pebbles that studded the silvery beach.

“Oh, such glorious trees!” Nancy would exclaim as the car tore holes in the sunset’s shadows.

“Trees! If you like trees, Nance, just wait until daylight, and I show you huge black forests,” declared Rosalind, kindling merrily to Nancy’s enthusiasm.

“And when Uncle Frederic and Aunt—his wife,” Nancy corrected herself, “go away, will you be here all alone?”

“All alone! I wish I could be,” replied Rosalind, “then we could have sport; just you and I and, of course, a few servants. But, Nance, I never can get away from Margot, my old nurse, you know. Darling mother, my own mother, trusted her always, because she herself had been ill so long, so, of course, Margot’s sort of bossy yet. She’s as good as gold, but one doesn’t want gold bands around one’s neck all the time,” laughed Rosalind, as the car drew up to the broad veranda.

Even in the dusk, for it was now quite dark under the heavy foliage, Nancy could easily discern the massive outline of the big country house. She knew its story; how her Uncle Frederic had bought it from some old New England family just because it offered a seeming refuge for the first Mrs. Fernell, Rosalind’s mother, whose early invalidism had ended in leaving the girl so much alone among servants and wealth. Aunt Katherine had loved the big house which she had called Fernlode, because the ferns grew in paths and veins almost unbroken in their lines, and also because Fern was a part of their old family name.

“Here we are, Margot!” called out Rosalind, as a big woman came up smiling to that call.

She greeted Nancy happily, and at once the visitor understood why she was considered bossy, for she directed the man to take the bags and to do several other things all at the same time.

“Rosalind dear, you should have worn a sweater. See how cool it is—”

“A blessing, Margot dear. Haven’t we been roasting for days? Sweater! I just want to feel comfortable for a little while. Come on, Nance, I always run upstairs. Helps me reduce—”

And the puffing Rosalind executed a series of jumps, in lieu of running, which seemed too much to expect of her, and this bore out the fat girl’s good intentions.

“I do every earthly thing I can, you know,” confessed Rosalind, as they stood before an open door, “but I can’t see that it does one bit of good. I’m—hoping—you may have—a secret—recipe—” Breath giving out, Rosalind gave in, and sank down on a big chintz covered chair.

“I don’t see why you worry about being fat, Rosa,” said Nancy with real sincerity. “Here I’m too thin and mother keeps worrying about that all the time—”

“Oh, what an idea!” chuckled Rosalind. “We can be the Before and After sign—fat and thin, you know. Wouldn’t that be great?” and as she laughed Nancy remembered another familiar sign. It was to do with laughing and growing fat!

“Shall I change for dinner?” Nancy asked when the gale of mirth subsided and Rosalind stood before a mirror patting her turbulent hair.

“No-o-o!” drawled Rosa. “Just put a ribbon around your head and that’ll be all you need to do. Dad won’t be home tonight—he’s in Boston, and Betty” (she whispered this) “is never home when Dad’s away. So a ribbon will fool Margot, and after dinner—” A queerly pulled face, that made a pincushion out of Rosa’s features, finished the sentence. Evidently she had some important plans for after dinner.

As they “fussed up” Nancy noticed how really pretty Rosalind was. Her eyes were always laughing and they were blue, her mouth was always smiling and it was scalloped, and her hair was “gorgeous,” being a perfect mop of brown curls rather short but not bobbed. It was this head of hair that from baby hood had distinguished Rosalind, for her “lovely curls” were a matter of family pride to all but herself.

Her weight, however, could not be denied, even by one so favorably prejudiced as Nancy, for Rosalind Fernell was decidedly fat, as has been said before. She wore just now a one-piece dress of very brightly colored summer goods, with the figures so mixed up that Nancy remembered her brother Ted’s calling this style “circus clothes.”

Nancy, disregarding Rosalind’s suggestion for a ribbon around her head to make up a dinner costume, had managed to slip into the simple white voile that her mother was so solicitous about having exactly on top of her bag, so that she could slip into it quickly, and this with the yellow ribbon band around her dark hair completed, rather than composed, the costume.

“You look perfectly duckie,” declared Rosalind, giving her cousin a frankly admiring glance. “And I’m glad you did dress up, for maybe Gar will be over.”

“Who’s Gar?” asked Nancy.

“He’s my—lifeguard; I’d perish without Garfield Durand. He lives on the next pile of rocks and he’s more fun than a troop. You’ll love Gar, I’m sure. There’s Baldy calling dinner. Baldy is the butler, you know, and he’s the most perfect baldy you ever gazed at. Has a head like the crystal ball in the back yard.”

For a camp, which was really what this summer home was supposed to be, Nancy thought everything about her most elaborate. The house was as heavily built as any city house might be, and the big beamed ceiling in the long dining room, made her think of an old English picture. The butler, Thomas, called Baldy, by the irrepressible Rosalind, rather awed Nancy at first, but, unlike the butlers in fiction, he could smile, and he could bend and he was human, so that after her chair had been adjusted and her water poured, Nancy presently felt quite at ease and enjoyed, rather than feared, her surroundings. Margot sat at Rosalind’s side and Nancy was placed opposite. After all, she thought, one’s simple meals at home were no different from that being served, except that at home things came more promptly and—yes—perhaps they did taste a little better mother’s way. However, the soup was good and the chicken easy to eat, while the dessert was piled high with cream and Nancy ate it—to make her fat.

“Rosalind, you had better have—” Margot was objecting.

“Nop-ee, I’m going to have this,” interrupted Rosalind, who took the overly rich dessert in defiance of ounces more of the much detested fat, which were bound to follow.

“Mrs. Fred phoned that she was detained in the city and so could not be here to greet you, Nancy,” Margot said, as Thomas pulled out her chair, “but I’m sure Rosalind wants you all to herself, so Mrs. Fred need not be anxious.” This little pleasantry was followed up by an effusive reply from Rosalind, who couldn’t really seem to get close enough to Nancy for her own affectionate satisfaction.

“Oh, we’ll be all right, Margot,” she assured the tall woman with the unavoidable horn-rimmed glasses. “We’ve got oodles of things to talk about, and piles of things to do. You won’t mind if I let up on the exercise to-night, will you?”

“But you know, Rosie—”

“’Course I do, Margy,” and Rosalind coaxed prettily. “But I want to entertain Cousin Nancy—”

The smiling assent from Margot seemed unnecessary, for Rosalind was trooping off, with her arm around Nancy’s waist, and her laughter bubbling like the soap-suds Ted loved to blow out of his old corn-cob pipe.

Nancy couldn’t help thinking of her brother Ted, the boy now far away at camp, for, somehow, she was missing him in spite of all this strange adventure. He was always such a jolly little fellow. What a lark he would have had in this big place and how he would contrive to turn every little incident into a laugh or a chuckle? While Rosalind was speaking to the butler, and while she gave some message to Margot, Nancy had just a little time for ruminating. She wondered what her mother was doing. And how the long summer ahead would turn out for each of her small, intimate family.

“Come into my room,” said Rosalind at her elbow, as they once again had mounted the broad stairs. “It’s right next to yours—I thought you might be scary if I put you over in the guest room,” said the cousin, considerately.

“I should much rather be near you, thanks Rosa,” replied Nancy, meaning exactly what she said, for with real night settling down upon the mountains, a queer loneliness amounting almost to foreboding seemed to seize upon her.

“And you are never lonely out here?” she could not resist remarking, for it seemed to her Rosalind’s spirits were mounting higher each moment. She laughed at the slightest excuse, and appeared to Nancy somewhat over excited.

“Well, of course, sometimes I have been. But not since Gar came. He was abroad last summer, but now—why, he drives me every place when Margot and Chet think I’m—doing something else.”

This last piece of information was almost whispered to Nancy, and it was not difficult for her to guess that Rosalind indulged in pranks as well as in bubbling laughter.

“But you don’t really go out without your daddy’s knowing?” Nancy timidly asked.

“Bless the infant!” cooed Rosalind, “I do believe she’s a regular little darling, country coz,” and another demonstration accompanied that. “But I won’t shock you to death. I’m really quite harmless, and you see,” her face sobered for a moment, “all that I do concerns myself. I think I should have the privilege of enjoying myself, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, of course. That is—” Already Nancy found herself perplexed. What if Rosalind was as risky as she pretended to be; and if she, Nancy, would find it difficult to keep free from responsibility?

“You know Orilla, she’s the girl who used to live here, is too smart for words,” imparted Rosalind, as the two girls delayed in Rosalind’s beautiful golden room. “She believes she can help me to—to get thin” (there was wistfulness in this remark), “but Betty just can’t bear her. So, of course, I have to do lots of things on the sly.”

Instantly there flashed before Nancy’s mind the suggestion her mother had made concerning this girl, Orilla. And a suspicious, jealous girl is not less dangerous just because she happens to be young. In fact, thought Nancy, that would only make her less wise and more foolish.

CHAPTER IV
FROM THE NEXT PILE OF ROCKS

Grave misgivings flooded into Nancy’s mind. She had known of Rosalind’s peculiarities, had often heard her mother express keen regret that she, Uncle Frederic’s own sister, could not have done something to supply the mother-need for Rosalind when Katherine Fernell was taken from her daughter.

And it seemed more unfortunate than otherwise, that Uncle Fred’s position guaranteed so much hired care for Rosalind, because it was this fact that had separated her from Mrs. Brandon, Nancy’s mother herself having been separated from her brother through a circumstance not unlike this very issue.

Not that Nancy bothered now to recall all this, but just because the “why” of her own circumstances compared oddly with the “why not” of Rosalind’s. It appeared that Rosalind did not know why she should not “sneak off to ride with Gar” when she was supposed to be following all the rules of Fernlode, which must have forbidden this.

“I suppose it is not that I’m any better than Rosa,” the puzzled Nancy was thinking, “but just because mother made me think differently.”

“Nance, I suppose you are tired from that long, dirty train ride,” suggested Rosalind, who was getting out a wrap for herself and another for Nancy. “Suppose we just scout around a little?”

“Scout around?”

“Yeppy. First let’s make sure you’re acquainted with your room, because you might want to come in before I do,” said Rosalind. “Here’s all the night stuff, but I don’t suppose you try to bathe and scour off fat as I do. At any rate, do just as you please. Lock your door and yell through the keyhole at Margot, and if she asks for me—”

“Won’t you be—in?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Rosalind hurried to assure the puzzled girl. “I’m just preparing for emergencies. You see, I always expect them, but they somehow seldom come.” A little sigh took years from Rosalind’s heavy shoulders. She was acting now like such a very little girl, just sighing for romance and adventure.

On the big front porch, they tried the swing. As ever Rosalind cuddled up to Nancy in that eager, impulsive way that made Nancy feel sort of old. She, not being demonstrative herself, leaving that prerogative for the small brother Ted, could not at once get used to Rosalind’s effusions.

“You see, Nance,” bubbled Rosalind, “I’m going to do something won-der-ful!” This last word was dragged out like a tape line measuring thrills. “I waited until you came—you see, Orilla is really won-der-ful. She’s the very smartest thing. And you see, Nancy, you can’t realize the curse of being fat.”

A peal of laughter from the amused Nancy checked this.

“You can’t really mean it, Rosa,” she said. “Being fat isn’t anything. You’re just growing, and you won’t always be so—so stout,” the visitor assured her cousin, kindly.

“No, you just bet I won’t, not if I know it,” declared Rosa, who even then chewed a chocolate drop. “I’m going to get thin while the folks are in Europe. Wait until you see Betty, then you’ll understand. She’s just eel-ly, and she loves slippery clothes, the shimmery-shimmery kind. How could she ever own me as a step-daughter?” Again the catchy little sigh betrayed Rosa’s state of mind. Nancy was beginning to wonder if she might not be a little bit jealous of the famously beautiful Betty.

“But don’t you know,” cautioned Nancy, feeling more and more like a grandmother giving advice, “it’s awfully dangerous to—to take off fat too suddenly.”

“Don’t believe a word of it,” declared Rosa. “I’d take a chance on reducing pounds per day if I knew how. You see,” shifting the cushion and kicking the swing into action, “I inherit it from Grandmother Cashion, mother’s mother. She was fat. I have her picture. And she had curly hair like mine, so of course I just had to be like her,” argued the surprising girl.

“But you also got the curls,” suggested Nancy, in genuine admiration.

“Which I don’t want. Orilla says they make me look fatter, more babyish, you know.”

“I suppose Orilla has thin hair,” Nancy could not resist saying, for she was already convinced of Orilla’s methods.

“’Tis straightish, rather straggily,” conceded Rosa. “But, you see, Orilla doesn’t have to be pretty, she’s so smart.”

“What is she so smart about?” pressed Nancy.

“Oh, well, ’most everything,” floundered Rosa. “She intends to be a nurse, no, a beauty doctor,” she corrected herself. “That’s why she’s helping me.”

“How’s she doing it?” demanded Nancy, frankly.

“Oh, it’s sort of a secret, but, of course, I’ll tell you later on,” agreed Rosa.

“Does your—does Betty know?”

“Mercy me, no! She’s the very last person on earth to know,” said Rosa tragically. “I’m going to surprise her, and dad. It’s all beautifully planned and I’m just waiting for them to sail, then I’ll sail in.”

“You’re an awful lot like our Ted,” Nancy told Rosa, a compliment unqualified.

“Is he fat?”

“A little. But I don’t mean that way. I mean in making plans. He always has the most wonderful ideas—”

“I’d love Ted. What a shame you didn’t bring him along.”

“He would have been jolly,” agreed the sister wistfully. “But you see, Ted needs to be trained. Being a boy without a father—”

“Just like me being a girl without a mother,” spoke up Rosa. “I’d love to go to camp. In fact, father almost agreed, but Betty! You see Betty believes in white hands and slim ankles.”

“Oh,” said Nancy.

“Want to go around to the other side of the house? We can watch the boats from there. We have a motorboat but that’s one thing dad is strict about. He just won’t let me go on the water at night without him—imagine his having to be along always. And he won’t let me go in a canoe even in broad daylight, unless I almost swear I’ll stay in the cove, or just hug the edge. Dad is such a darling, I never would think of breaking my word to him,” declared Rosa, her hand bruising Nancy’s arm in making the declaration.

“We do feel that way when we love folks, don’t we?” supplied Nancy. “Mother hardly asks me to promise anything, except where something might be dangerous, but it’s fun to keep a promise as well as to break it, if you just think that way. I’ve a chum who spends most of her time planning to fool folks. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I’ve tried it and it didn’t turn out so funny. Once when I tried to fool Ted by locking him out, he just climbed in a window I couldn’t reach, and I came pretty near having to stay out in the rain all night. You see, Miss Manners, we call her Manny—is to us about like Margot is to you. Except, of course, she isn’t a servant, she’s a dear friend we found last year out at Long Leigh. We had a great time last summer,” Nancy continued. “I’ll have to tell you about it some time.”

“I’d love to hear. You had a shop or something, didn’t you?”

“Yes, a funny little store we turned into almost everything but a church,” laughed Nancy. They were moving around the winding porch and Nancy felt relieved that Rosa seemed to be more contented than she had been at dinner time. Surely she wasn’t thinking of stealing off any place?

“Doesn’t the lake look lovely with all the boats lighted up?” Rosa exclaimed. “With the big black mountains at the back and the little firefly boats in front—I guess this is one of the most beautiful lakes in America,” she finished.

“It is glorious,” agreed Nancy. “But it makes me feel sort of awe-stricken,” she admitted.

“Not homesick? That isn’t just a nice way of saying you’re homesick, Nance?” asked Rosa solicitously.

“Oh, no indeed, Rosa,” denied Nancy. “But I was just thinking how dark it can be under all these trees.”

“And this house hasn’t a bright spot in it,” added Rosa. “I wonder why folks build with black beams in forests? And they always seem to. If I were planning a mountain camp I’d have white pine wood and turn yellow paint on with a hose, inside and out,” she declared. A car was coming up the winding drive, its headlights threading their way through the trees in glaring billows.

“There’s Gar!” exclaimed Rosa, joy juggling the words. “I’m so glad he came over! Now, you won’t be homesick.”

“I wasn’t,” defended Nancy. But the car was at the steps now and Rosa was racing off in that direction. The prospect of meeting a strange boy fluttered Nancy, naturally, but Perhaps she would have been more self-conscious had the caller been a girl. Girls are supposed to be critical, and Nancy’s wardrobe was not elaborate, but boys—well boys ought to be jolly. She knew that Ted and his little friends would still be when they grew up.

“My cousin, you know, Gar,” Rosa was exclaiming, as the youth in white knickers, with his prep school sweater of violent yellow, came along the porch.

The introductions over, Nancy knew she was going to like Garfield Durand. His manner toward Rosa was that of a big brother, and he did not hesitate to argue against many of her suggestions.

“Can’t take you out, Rosa, unless you’re sure your dad won’t mind,” he said frankly. Then turning to Nancy, “Don’t you think it’s silly to be meeting that Orilla girl—”

“Gar!” came Rosa’s warning. “Please don’t tell all my secrets at once. I’m sorry if I bother you—”

“Oh, now Rose, you know well enough I don’t mean that,” interrupted Gar. “It’s just that you’re so—so easy with Orilla, and she’s a fox, only you won’t believe it,” declared the boy, flushing.

An awkward silence followed that remark. It was very plain that Rosa objected to discussing Orilla and her ways before Nancy. It was also quite plain that the boy was trying to avoid something, perhaps a clandestined ride which Rosa seemed bent upon. He didn’t settle himself down as one does who might expect to stay awhile; in fact, he first sat upon the porch rail, next straddled a bench, then flung himself into a rocker and seemed to find it impossible to obtain any position suitable to his turbulent mood.

“It’s certainly early enough now to take a drive,” Suggested Rosa, pointedly.

“Oh, surely,” agreed Gar. “Can’t I take you and your cousin over to the Point, or some place?”

“Like a dear,” replied Rosa. “I’ll run and break the news to Margot. She still believes in you, Gar,” and then Nancy found herself chatting to the boy, free from the unpleasant little discussion and at ease, because he seemed so frankly boyish and so eager to take her for the proposed drive.

“Don’t mind my scrapping with Rose,” he remarked. “She’s such a kid and so easily influenced. And you see, Mr. Fernell trusts our folks to sort of keep track of her.”

“Of course. That’s splendid,” agreed Nancy. “You see I’m sort of a stranger myself, and I guess Rosalind has been a lot alone—”

“You’re the very thing for her, and maybe just in time,” he said under his breath, with an intention by no means clear to Nancy.

“Just in time!” she thought. “Whatever can that mean?”

CHAPTER V
THE FALL IN THE WOODS

“We’ll probably pick up Dell,” suggested Garfield, referring to his sister who was found on the “next pile of rocks,” as Rosa had described the Durand estate. She was older than her brother, much older than Rosa, and somehow this fact brought relief to Nancy, who was fearing things she couldn’t quite define. It seemed safer, however, to have an older girl along, and when Dell Durand jumped into the car and added her part to the fun of driving through the woods, up and down hills, in and out of sly curves that often brought Nancy’s breath up sharply, she talked to Nancy in the sensible, intelligent way that she, Nancy, was most accustomed to.

“We couldn’t live up here if it were not for the fun at the Point,” Dell declared. “It’s all well enough in the daytime—plenty of sport then for anyone who likes the water, mountains or—pet dogs,” she said this sarcastically, “but if we didn’t have the pavilion for dancing and the movies and such things, I’m afraid we would find the evenings—long!”

“Shall we go over to Bent’s?” called Gar from the wheel.

“Just as Rosa says,” replied his sister politely.

“I’m afraid Nancy may be tired,” replied Rosa considerately. “I haven’t given her a minute since she landed, and you know what that Boston and Maine train does to you. No—guess we’ll just peek in at the pavilion. I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep a wink if I didn’t get a little something to pep me up,” sighed Rosa. “That house with Margot and Thomas can get on—one’s—nerves—”

“Nerves!” mocked Gar. “Say, Rosie, when you get nerves I’ll get—”

“Sense,” supplied Rosa, imitating the boy’s voice. “Anyhow I have a little of that—”

“Quit your squabbling, babes,” ordered Dell. “Can’t you behave before company?”

Just then the pavilion loomed up, with the paper covered lights and jazzing music, not the usual, ordinary summer place, but rather a little spot in the wilderness where, evidently, the young folks of Craggy Bluff found such evening entertainment as Dell had so briefly described.

It was all a little strange to Nancy, who had never before been thrown in with such grown up young folks. Even Rosa, although in reality only a few months older than Nancy, seemed very grown up and superficial, now that she was mingling with numbers of friends who promptly greeted their arrival at the dance hall.

Gar took himself and his car off, excusing himself to join other boys who claimed him, while Rosa insisted upon Nancy dancing.

“Let’s wait a while,” Nancy coaxed, not wishing to lose herself at once in the gliding dancers.

“Can’t,” objected Rosa. “I’ve got to dance. It’s good for me,” she whispered; and when the two girls did glide off, Nancy was agreeably surprised at the ease displayed by her cousin.

“Just like floating,” Rosa explained. “I Can float all day. And dancing is such a silly walk, isn’t it? Don’t even have to bend.”

It was not much more than a rhythmic walk, and as for bending—surely that was quite out of question, for that season’s dance was markedly a glide.

Dell was dancing with some young man, and Gar was not to be seen about, when Rosa led Nancy over to a corner of the platform.

“I just thought I saw—someone I knew over here,” she said, “Orilla, you know. But I don’t imagine she would be out here—she’s so busy, always.”

Rosa was peering into the dark corners where some few persons stood watching the dancers. Somehow Nancy was secretly hoping that Rosa was mistaken, for while she had a certain curiosity to see this much talked of Orilla, she would rather have delayed the experience until some other time.

“I guess it wasn’t she,” Rosa said finally, still jerking her head from side to side attempting to find the face she was seeking for. “Yes,” she exclaimed again, “I do believe I see her. Glide over this way—”

“Isn’t it too dark along the edge?” Nancy asked. She did not like the idea of getting so far away from Dell. Besides that, it really was dark and deserted at that end of the platform.

But Rosa was bent upon following the figure she either saw or imagined she saw. In fact, so intent was she, that Nancy’s remark went by unnoticed.

“Wait here just a minute,” Rosa said suddenly, dropping Nancy’s arm and dashing off along the uncertain edge of the circular platform.

Fear seized Nancy! What if Rosa was as foolish as Garfield had hinted, and what if she should run off even for a short time on some silly pretext with the undesirable Orilla? Gar had said that Nancy had arrived “just in time.” What could he have meant?

She was watching Rosa’s light dress and felt she would surely have to follow her. No matter what Rosa had said about Nancy waiting, she was going to keep as close—

The flash of Rosa’s dress had gone out like a candle flame in the wind. Turning her own steps in the direction Rosa must have taken, she hurried along the platform’s edge and just caught a glimmer of something light—Rosa’s dress it must have been—darting through the trees, away from the pavilion.

“Rosalind!” she called anxiously. “Rosa!”

A queer little twittering whistle, that could not have been an answer from Rosalind, pierced the darkness. The music had ceased, that dance was over and now the young folks were all flocking in the other direction. Nancy saw this, too, as she stepped off the platform and attempted to follow the hidden trail of Rosalind.

“How absurd!” she could not help sighing, “if this is the way I’m going to spend my summer chasing after a foolish girl—”

The next moment she was sure she heard whispering. That certainly was Rosa, but why should she be hiding?

“Rosa!” again called Nancy, this time feeling very much like turning back to Dell and leaving Rosa to report for herself.

Indignant and offended, Nancy was almost about to follow out that thought when a sudden sharp cry—it was from Rosa—certainly—a cry of pain came from a spot close by.

“Oh, Orilla! quick!” Nancy heard. “My foot is caught and—”

“Rosa, where are you?” sharply demanded Nancy. “I’m here! I can help you!”

“She’s all right—” came a voice not Rosa’s. Then the flash of a small light betrayed the spot where Rosa had fallen.

“It’s my foot, it got caught in briars, and oh, mercy!” Rosa exclaimed, “I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle!”

By this time Nancy could see Rosa’s companion. So that was Orilla! A tall girl with fiery red hair that even in the glimmering light of the hand flash which she, Orilla, was holding, looked too red to be pretty. It was as if the head that held it all was in a real blaze, rather than being covered with hair.

“Oh, you’re all right, Rose. Get up,” the girl ordered so unkindly that Nancy bent over and put her arm about the struggling figure.

“Did you ever see anything—so—so—beastly!” poor Rose was muttering. “Just to jump into a hole and get strangled with briars—”

“Hold on to me, dear.” Nancy could not help offering the endearing term, for the red-haired girl surely was scoffing. And Rosa’s every attempt to seem grown up, her foolish little expressions, and her disregard of that sort of conduct which Nancy very well knew was Rosa’s natural manner just being held back, made the cousin all the more an object of affection to Nancy. She was now Rosa’s champion against this girl, Orilla.

“Showing off,” was what it all was, of course, but there was something more important to think of just now. Rosa was hurt, the Durands were not in sight and Nancy was simply frightened to death at the whole situation.

“Can’t you really get up?” asked Orilla, showing some concern herself now. She was holding the flash light over Rosa, and in the darkness its rays shone clear and remarkably bright for a thing so small. It picked out a mass of wicked briars and treacherous undergrowth into which Rosa had fallen.

“I can’t—stir—” she moaned. “There’s a regular rope of something around—my—leg. Oh-h-h!”

It was not hard to realize that a rope of something had indeed imprisoned the girl, for even the efforts of Orilla joining those of Nancy, failed to extricate the injured one.

“What—shall—we do!” breathed Nancy, more deeply concerned than she wished to admit even to herself. “However will we get her out of this?”

“Silly thing for her to get into,” grumbled the red-haired girl. “But I guess I can chop her out.”

“Chop her out!” exclaimed Nancy, incredulously.

“Yes. I’ve got tools. You stay here with her, and for goodness’ sake keep her quiet. My car is over on the road. I’ll be back as quickly as I can get here.”

Presently the two girls found themselves alone, in the dark, in that lonesome wood. Nancy was too frightened to do more than keep whispering courage to Rosa, and Rosa was too miserable to do more than groan.

“Why—” started Nancy once more, but checked the query before it was formed. Of what use to question Rosa now? The thing to do was to hope for Orilla’s return. But even that worried Nancy.

“Oh, Nance,” groaned Rosa, “if my poor leg is broken—”

“It isn’t, dear, I’m sure,” consoled Nancy. “You know a strain feels dreadfully at first. Are you sure she’ll come back?”

“Oh, yes. She sounds mean, but that’s her way,” Rosa explained. “Can’t you see her light? Isn’t she coming yet?”

“No,” replied Nancy. “And Rosa, I feel I’ll just have to go back to the pavilion for Dell. What will they think?”

“Think we’re lost, maybe.” Rosa was tugging at the briars and uttering groans at every attempt to free herself. Nancy had torn the skin from her right hand in her attempts to help, but was still working carefully.

“How far is the road?” Nancy asked presently.

“Just there, behind that little hill. You can’t see it, of course—”

“Will you stay while I look for Dell?”

“I’ll have to. But oh, Nance,” as her cousin prepared to go, “you know I don’t want them to see me meeting Orilla. They just wouldn’t understand. Every one hates her so and she’s so bitter about it. Look again. Isn’t she coming?”

Mystified, Nancy obeyed.

“Yes, I believe she is. There’s a spark—yes, it’s her light,” she added relievedly. “But how will she chop you out?”

“She carries tools; she’ll have a little chopper—a small ax, you know,” faltered Rosa, relief showing also in her voice.

“You mean a hatchet. Why would she carry a hatchet?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, sometime; if I ever get out of this,” groaned Rosa, digging her fingers deep into the flesh of Nancy’s arm to which she was clinging.

The faithful little flash-light dispelled what darkness it could reach, as the girl with the small hatchet hurried back to them.

“Now don’t move while I chop,” she ordered sharply. “I’m hours late now, and I’ve got to hurry.”

“Being late—” began Nancy indignantly. But holding back the briars and bushes while Orilla chopped at that which so securely bound Rosa, precluded anything like objections to the apparent heartlessness of Orilla.

“There; I guess you can get up now. Hope to goodness I’m not all stung with poison-ivy,” Orilla snarled, while Nancy gave her entire attention to the unfortunate cousin.

“Put your arm under her other arm,” she ordered Orilla. “Her ankle is hurt, you know,” she finished sarcastically.

“Oh yes, I know,” sneered the red-haired one. But nevertheless she did as Nancy Brandon ordered her to do.

CHAPTER VI
A STRANGE RESCUE

Although both Nancy and Orilla gave all their strength to the task, it was only with great difficulty that they succeeded in getting poor Rosa over to the pavilion.

“Now try,” insisted Orilla for times repeated, “not to attract attention. It’s awful to be always getting in scrapes—”

“Orilla Rigney! You just hush!” spoke up Rosa quite unexpectedly. “You make me sick. One would think I did this purposely, when I was merely following—”

“Land sakes, you hush!” begged Orilla, her tone of voice changing instantly from that of the arrogant boss to that of the humble petitioner. “I know it was an accident.”

“Oh, do you? Nice of you, I’m sure. I guess I know it—ouch!” A necessarily sudden move took all the courage from Rosa. She sank down upon the edge of the platform, her arms actually clutching at Nancy’s knees.

“Well, you don’t have to be such a baby,” snapped Orilla.

“Better a baby than a fool,” quarreled Rosa.