devotedly that she almost suffered a relapse), and with Mrs. Crane and Mr. Black. But, as yet, she had not returned to her old footing with her comrades; she was not yet sufficiently strong for the old rough-and-tumble play, the happy-go-lucky hours in Dandelion Cottage. She was a new variety of Bettie, a fragile Bettie, to be handled with the utmost tenderness.

Mr. Black and his stout sister, Mrs. Crane, than whom Bettie had no stauncher friends, had swung the largest and most gorgeous hammock that Lakeville could furnish, under their trees for her—they were only sorry that she couldn't use two hammocks.

"Peter," said Mrs. Crane (they were sitting on the porch to keep an eye on Bettie, who, in spite of the gorgeousness of her swaying couch, had fallen asleep), "that child ought to stay outdoors all the time. That rectory is a stuffy place, crowded up against the church and right in the smoke of two factories. As soon as she's strong enough to stand it, she ought to go camping—some place on the lake shore where the air is pure."

"Of course she ought," agreed Mr. Black, heartily. "It's the best tonic in the world for growing children—there's nothing like it in bottles."

"Isn't there any way we could manage it? If we only had a camp——"

"We'll have one," promised Mr. Black, promptly.

"But we haven't any land——"

"Yes, we have; a lot of it. About four years ago I bought forty acres from an Indian, forty more from his brother, and then, just to be obliging, forty more from his friend, all for a few dollars an acre. Afterwards somebody suggested that it was all the same forty, but it wasn't; I looked it up to see. It's seventeen miles from here on the shore of the biggest and wettest lake there is, with the cleanest, sweetest air that ever was made. Just the finest spot in the world for a camp—I saw it once.

"When? Oh, six or seven years ago. I tell you what, Sarah! Suppose we take a run up there in the automobile and have a look at it. There used to be a road—it's probably there yet."

"Why couldn't we make a picnic of it and take Bettie and the girls?" asked good Mrs. Crane, instantly falling in with her brother's plan. "Seventeen miles is no distance at all for the car—I'm sure Bettie could stand it because she could get a nap there as well as at home."

"We could," agreed Mr. Black, "and I guess there'd be room for Henrietta, too—she'll want to go."

"I always did enjoy a picnic," confessed Mrs. Crane, a little sheepishly. "I guess I haven't quite grown up, in some ways."

"I like 'em myself," owned Mr. Black. "Besides, I've been thinking for some time that I'd like a look at that land—haven't seen it since I bought it. This is Monday, isn't it? Suppose we go there day after to-morrow if the weather stays right—that'll give us a day to cook in. We'll ask the girls to-night."

So, in this commonplace fashion, was planned the picnic that proved utterly unlike any picnic that this good, elderly couple had ever attended; for this particular outing behaved in a most extraordinary way. Mr. Black supposed that this innocent excursion was his, that it belonged to him, that it was subservient to his will; instead of which—but you shall hear what happened.

CHAPTER II
The Troubled Whale

MR. BLACK, his fine dark eyes sparkling with pleasure; his crisp hair, plentifully sprinkled with white, standing upright from his broad, benevolent brow, looked with approval at his party as he packed his merry guests very carefully into his big touring car.

Jean, who was tall and not particularly wide for her fourteen and a half years, was attractive because of the serene loveliness of her expression; one knew at a glance that she was a good child. One guessed, just as quickly, that Henrietta was sometimes naughty, for an impish light danced in her long-lashed black eyes and there was a mischievous dimple in the dusky crimson of her cheek. Next to Jean in height and age, she seemed older and yet less responsible—one couldn't be quite sure of spirited Henrietta Bedford.

Marjory, two years younger, was both short and narrow for her age; and so very fair that one had to guess at her eyebrows. But she, too, was a pretty child, for her small features were pleasing and her pale golden hair was quite wonderful. Like Henrietta, she was quick and graceful in all her movements.

Bettie, also between twelve and thirteen, was now mostly eyes; big, velvety brown ones that played pranks with one's heart-strings; particularly with those of Mr. Black and Mrs. Crane. She had lost all her short, curly brown hair during her illness; it was now coming in, shorter and curlier than ever.

Mabel, the youngest of the group, was also the broadest. But her undeniable plumpness did not detract from her looks. One couldn't help liking her honest brown eyes, the wholesome red and white of her rounded countenance, her sturdy, childlike figure, and the rich bronze of her abundant—and frequently untidy—hair.

Mrs. Crane, brown as to skin, black as to eyes, stout, elderly, and warm-hearted, was very like her brother, except that she sometimes worried. Mr. Black never did.

Finally all these good people, with a coat or sweater for each girl, with two big hampers of food from Mr. Black's home, with several baskets of picnic lunch from the other houses, were stowed away in the capacious car. Mr. Black called his automobile the "Whale," because once, for a few weeks, it had been driven by Jonah Higginsworth, who, however, was so frequently cast forth by this modern whale, owing to dangerously reckless driving, that Mr. Black had been obliged to discharge him.

"We are seven," said Mr. Black, taking the chauffeur's seat. "I'm going to drive this car myself; they say the road's a bit rough—isn't used much. Seven's a good number."

"Eight's better," retorted Henrietta, diving into a silk bag and dragging forth a queer bundle of mottled fur.

"What's that?" demanded Mr. Black. "I didn't invite anybody like that to my picnic."

"Just a kitten," explained Henrietta, waving him for all to see. "I adopted him yesterday, but nobody in our house likes him, so I have to wear him—he's very tame."

"He looks," laughed Bettie, "just like the pudding Mabel made for me two weeks ago; purple, yellow, and white, all jumbled together—let's name him Ambrosial Delight."

"No," objected Henrietta, "he's already named Anthony Fitz-Hubert."

"Because he has fits?" asked Marjory.

"He doesn't. Just see how calm he is."

Doctor Bennett, Doctor Tucker, Marjory's Aunty Jane, and all the mothers stood on the sidewalk to see the merry party started on its way. Henrietta's dignified little grandmother sat in her carriage.

"Don't worry if we're late," said Mr. Black, turning to this trusting assemblage and not guessing how very late he was going to be. "The other end of our road may prove a trifle heavy; the day's so fine that we're not going to hurry, anyhow. Good-by till you see us again—we'll take the very best care of all your precious girls. Good-by, good-by——"

"Just where are you going?" shrieked Aunty Jane, a moment too late.

For the picnic, kitten and all, was already spinning joyously away; and never was there a happier party. At first the inviting road was all that road should be, for constant use kept it in excellent condition. After the first two miles, however, the going