“If we loved her so much, we couldn’t blame him for doing the same thing.” 24

“I know, but if he’d only waited two or three years,” mourned Marjorie. “He came a good deal too soon, and now I don’t suppose we’ll ever see her again.”

The three conspirators exchanged significant glances and Lucile cried, merrily, “Perhaps you’ll change your tune in a little while,” and just as the girls were about to demand the meaning of this strange remark, she added, “Here come the rest of them now,” and flew down to welcome them.

“What on earth——” began Marjorie, and then stopped as the remaining girls of the camp-fire Aloea, six in all, for they had added two to their number since the spring before, ran up on the porch, all talking at once and making such a noise that her voice was drowned.

It was quite some time before order was restored and Marjorie could again demand an explanation.

“Now that we are all here, Lucy,” she said, “suppose you tell us what you meant by that speech of yours.”

“What speech?” said Lucile, for she had forgotten it in the excitement of welcoming the new arrivals. “I’ll explain anything, but I have to know what it is first.”

“Naturally,” Marjorie agreed. “Perhaps you will remember that just before the girls came you spoke of our changing our tune, or something to that effect, in regard to Miss Howland.”

“Mrs. Wescott, I suppose you mean?” Lucile inquired, blandly, “It seems to me I did say something like that. What would you like to know?”

“What you meant by it,” shouted Marjorie, and Margaret added, “Go ahead, give it to us, Lucy. I have an idea that’s what you called us here for.”

“Smart child,” approved Jessie, with an approving pat and nod of the head. “You’re coming right along.”

Margaret thrilled with a pleasure that was almost pain. “She never would have dared say that to me before,” she cried to herself, exultantly. “She would have been too afraid of hurting me. Now I know I’m just like all the rest!”