The Camp Fire Girls in After Years

No, in spite of the fact that Polly O'Neill had in the last ten years made a great name for herself as one of the leading actresses in the United States, she was as thoughtless and impetuous as she had been as a girl.

Finally, however, with what seemed to require a good deal of effort she got up and moved, this time toward the east, but all the elasticity had gone from her. The sand was uncomfortably heavy, so that she dragged one foot after the other and her slender body seemed to wave like a stalk in the wind. But the worst of her difficulty was that her breath came in short, painful gasps. Unconsciously the effort which the business of walking required made Polly pay less strict attention to the path which she should have followed. But by and by, realizing that her way was less plain and that it was now quite dusk, she paused for a moment, put her hand to her side and then again seemed to be considering her situation. Whatever her decision, she must have accepted it philosophically, for this time, more deliberately, she sought another resting place. Fortunately not far away was a better shelter of rocks, half a dozen of them forming a kind of semicircular cave. Deliberately Polly crept toward their shelter and there removed her hat and tied her hair up in a long automobile veil. Then she lay down in the sand with the stones as a shield behind her and before her a wonderful view of the night as it stole softly over the desert.

Polly was not afraid and not even seriously annoyed. Life to her was but a series of adventures, some of them good and others less cheerful. She was not at all sure that she was not going to enjoy this one and she could not believe that it would do her any especial harm. She was sleeping outdoors for the benefit of her health in a small porch attached to her hotel bedroom. Perhaps the sand was less comfortable and clean than her bed, but then she had never before imagined so much sky and prairie. Moreover, there was no one to worry over her failure to appear except Marie, her maid. It was just possible that Marie might arouse the hotel and a searching party be sent to find her. In that case Polly knew that she would be glad to return to civilization. However, she did not intend to worry if no one came. Her hunger and thirst must be forgotten until morning.

Somehow, when the stars came out, in spite of the beauty of the night Polly found she could not manage to keep her eyes open. She was not exactly sleepy, only tired. For never in years had she had such an opportunity to think things over. How crowded her life had been, how full of hard work, of failure and success, yes, and loneliness! She was willing to confess it tonight to herself. How she would have liked to have had one of her old Camp Fire friends here in Colorado with her! Yet they were all too busy and she had not wished any one of her family to know how ill she had been. How much trouble she had always given all the people who cared for her ever since she could remember! Polly's conscience pricked her sharply. Why had she not married and settled down as her sister Mollie had suggested at least a hundred times? Because she would not give up her acting? Well, she need not have done this had she married Richard Hunt. But too many years had passed since their engagement had been broken for her to recall him. She had not even seen Mr. Hunt in the past five years, although they had occasionally acted in the same cities and at the same time.

Finally, however, when the famous Miss O'Neill actually fell asleep she was smiling faintly. For a vision had suddenly come to her of how shocked her sister Mollie and her brother-in-law, Mr. William Webster, would be if they knew that she was sleeping alone on the edge of a desert. But she was surely too near the village to be in any danger from wild animals and no one would undertake such a walk as hers had been at this hour.

Nevertheless, wisdom should have prompted an old Camp Fire girl to have found twigs enough to have started even a miniature camp fire. But the edge of a desert is scarcely the place where wood abounds and the fact is, though she had thought of it, Polly had been too tired to make the necessary effort. For goodness only knows how much farther she need have wandered before coming to an oasis of shrubbery or trees.

When at last Miss O'Neill opened her eyes actually it was broad daylight and standing before her was a figure that almost fitted into her dream. For the girl was just about the age of the group of friends who had once lived together in a log house in the woods, and all night she had been dreaming of Sunrise Cabin.

Nevertheless her visitor bore no other resemblance to them, so that the distinguished lady rubbed her eyes, wondering if she were yet awake and how the girl could have come so close up to her without her hearing.

A glance explained this, for the intruder was barefooted and her legs and feet were so brown and hard they appeared totally unfamiliar with shoes and stockings.

She was staring so hard at Polly that she seemed scarcely conscious of anything except her own surprise.

With an effort Miss O'Neill sat upright. She did not feel tired now in the least, but gloriously rested and strengthened from her wonderful night out of doors in the clear, pure air. But of course she must explain her situation to the little girl before her, although she would have preferred her discoverer to have explained herself.

In spite of being about fourteen years old, this child had on only a thin yellow calico frock, and it was late October. Her hair was perfectly straight and Polly might have thought her an Indian except that it was light brown in color, although a good deal stained by wind and sun. However, the girl's eyes were a kind of greenish gray in shade and her features were delicately modeled. But she had a peculiar and not an agreeable expression.

"I wandered away from my hotel last evening and was not able to return, so I slept here all night. How did you happen to find me?" Polly began, feeling that some one must start a conversation in order to persuade her companion to cease her almost frightened staring. Of course Polly appreciated that she herself was not looking her best, but there was no reason why she should excite so much curiosity.

Notwithstanding she received no answer. With a slight gesture of annoyance Miss O'Neill stood up. After all, she did not feel as energetic as she had thought and it was undoubtedly a long walk back to her hotel.

"Do you live anywhere near here? I am both hungry and thirsty. If you could find some one to help me I should be most grateful," Polly said as politely as if she had been speaking to a friend. For if the girl was afraid of her she wished her to forget her timidity.

But instead of replying the strange child stared harder than ever for half a minute, and then before Polly could speak again or touch her she was off, running across the sand like a deer, without a backward glance.

Miss O'Neill watched her for some time until she vanished into what appeared at this distance to be a clump of trees. Then she deliberately set out to follow her. The child must have come from some place nearer than the village where she was staying. In almost any kind of settlement she would be able to find a horse to take her back to her hotel.

CHAPTER VIII

"Bobbin"

ALL her life Polly O'Neill had felt a curious shrinking from physical cruelty, and growing older had not made the least change in her feeling. She had never talked about it, but had always been fearful that at heart she was a coward. The Camp Fire girls used to laugh at her because, of course, she had learned to do all of the things that their rules required without feeling any possible nervousness. But then no one of them understood what physical cruelty might mean and possibly might never see an exhibition of it.

Yet nothing was farther from her own mind at the present moment than this fear. She had come in about fifteen minutes' walk to a clump of cottonwood trees by a small stream of water, and there in their midst stood a crude two-room shanty with a bare space of ground in front of it and a lean dog sitting in a patch of sunshine.

But the sight that froze Polly's blood and made her stand suddenly so still that she might have been a wooden image was the figure of a man with a long whip in his hand, such as one might have used in driving cattle. And this whip was now whirling and stinging through the air and twisting itself about the body of the little girl who had been the first vision that Miss O'Neill's eyes had rested upon on waking that morning.

But the strangest thing of all was that the child was making no outcry and showing no effort to run away. Indeed, she stood perfectly still, hugging half a loaf of bread in her arms.

Polly made an inarticulate sound which she thought was a loud cry: "Stop!" But the man had not seen her approach and was too occupied with his hateful task to hear her, and to her intense shame she felt all at once desperately afraid of him. She was so far from any one she knew, she had so little physical strength and this man was so much more brutal than any one she had ever seen before in her life. Perhaps he would cease hurting the child this instant.

Then, without in the least knowing when nor how she had accomplished it, Polly rushed forward and seizing the man's thick wrist in her own slender fingers, clung to him desperately, while the thong of the whip curled and fell in a limp fashion about her own shoulders.

Too surprised to speak, the man took a step or two backward. In the course of her stage career Polly had acted a number of tragedy queens; and notwithstanding her slightly rumpled appearance at this moment, she had never looked the part better than now. Her thin figure was drawn up to its fullest height, her Irish blue eyes flashed Celtic lightnings. She even stamped her foot imperiously.

"You beast!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean by striking a little girl in that cruel fashion? I'll have you arrested! I don't care in the least if you are her father or what she has done, you have no possible right to be so brutal."

The man had dropped his whip to the ground and Polly now stooped and picked it up. It was absurd of her ever to have dreamed she could have been frightened by mere brute strength. The man was a good deal more afraid of her for the instant. The sudden apparition of a fashionably dressed young woman, appearing out of nowhere and springing upon him in such a surprising fashion, had destroyed his nerve.

"I wasn't doin' nawthin I hadn't a right ter," he growled. "That young 'un is allers stealin' somethin'. I caught her red-handed running off with that there loaf of bread."

For the first time since her arrival on the scene Polly O'Neill turned toward the girl. She was still staring at her with almost the same expression she had worn earlier in the day. But somehow something in her look touched Polly, brought her sudden inspiration.

"Why," she exclaimed with a break in her voice, "I believe she was bringing the bread to me. I told her I was hungry just a little while ago."

There was no one in the world who could be sweeter or simpler than Polly O'Neill when her feelings were deeply touched. This had always been true, even as a young girl, and of course, as she had grown into a famous woman, her charm had deepened. Now she put her arms about her new friend's shoulders. "You were going to give the bread to me, I'm sure. Thank you." Oblivious of the fact that the little girl's dress was exceedingly dirty and that her face was far from clean, Polly leaned over and kissed her.

Then she turned to the man. "If you will get a horse and drive me to my hotel I will pay you well for it," she explained.

In reply the man nodded and moved away, so that Polly was once more left alone with the girl.

It suddenly occurred to her that the child had never spoken since their meeting. Could she possibly be deaf and dumb? That might explain her strange expression.

"What is your name?" Polly asked gently.

Still the girl stared. Miss O'Neill repeated her question.

Then the girl, picking up a stick from the ground, slowly and laboriously printed in big letters, such as a child of six might have made, the word "Bobbin."

"Bobbin?" Polly repeated the name aloud as she read it. What an extraordinary title! One could scarcely call it a name.

"Is that the only name you have?" she inquired again, wondering at the same time how it was possible for the little girl to understand what she said without being able to reply. But Bobbin bowed her head, showing that she had understood. In some fashion she must have learned the lip language. Yet it was curious why if the girl had ever been sent to school she had learned nothing else. She appeared the veriest little savage that ever lived so close to wealth and civilization.

Polly sought in her mind to find out what she could do or say to show her gratitude. She had a sudden feeling that she could not turn her back upon the girl and leave her to her wretched fate, and yet of course the child had no claim upon her. It was something in the expression of Bobbin's eyes that seemed to haunt one.

With a slight, unnoticeable shrug of her shoulders, as though giving up the problem as too much for her, Polly now slipped her hand into her pocket, drawing out her purse bag. Opening it she found a large silver dollar, such as one uses in the West.

"Won't you buy yourself something from me?" she asked, trying to speak as distinctly as possible. She had not observed that in taking out the money she had carelessly dropped a handkerchief from her bag.

With a fleeting expression of pleasure the girl accepted the gift, but the next instant, when Polly turned to watch the man who was now approaching her with a lean horse hitched to a cart, she swooped down toward the ground and picking up the crumpled white object thrust it secretively inside her dress.

Five minutes after, when Polly and the man had started for Colorado Springs, Bobbin remained in the same position, watching them until they were out of sight. Then she began eating the neglected bread.

Upon arriving safely at her hotel, Miss O'Neill discovered that the news of her disappearance had been spread abroad by her frightened maid, and that a thorough search was being made for her. For although Polly had been trying to live as quietly as possible in a small, obscure hotel, the fact of her visit was well known to hundreds of people. You see, at this time in her life not only was her name celebrated from one part of the country to the other, but her face was equally familiar.

Through her maid, Marie, Polly was told that a gentleman, whose name she had not learned, had been particularly kind and interested in seeking to find her. So as soon as she rested she had every intention of inquiring his name and thanking him personally. But by late afternoon, when she finally dressed, this was impossible. Evidently the man did not wish to be annoyed by her thanks, for the message brought her was that on hearing of her safety he had suddenly left the village.

However, Polly was able to acquire some actual information about the girl she had seen earlier in the day, for "Bobbin" was apparently a well-known character in the famous Western resort. She was a little stray daughter of the place. Years before, the mother had come to Colorado from some city in the South and had died. Afterwards no one had ever claimed the child.

So the town had taken care of her, sent her to school and tried to teach her to talk. She was perhaps not entirely deaf, although no one exactly understood her case. But the girl was a hopeless little rebel. In no place would she stay unless kept there by iron bars. She seemed to have an unconquerable desire to be always out of doors, and in the brilliant Colorado climate this was nearly always possible. Recently she had been living with some gypsy people, who had established themselves in a temporary shanty at some little distance from the roads usually followed by sightseers. So Miss O'Neill had certainly wandered from the beaten track. Nevertheless she need not make herself unnecessarily unhappy over "Bobbin," for the girl would again be brought back to school as soon as she could be captured.

Yes, her name had been Roberta, an old-fashioned Southern name, and then in some way it had been shortened to Bobbie and now Bobbin. The child had a last name, of course, but the woman who told the story to Miss O'Neill had either never heard the mother's name or else had completely forgotten it.

Late that night in reflecting over her adventure Polly wished that she and Betty Graham could have changed places for a week or so. For Betty would certainly do something for the unfortunate Bobbin to make life happier for her, as she had a kind of genius for looking after people. Her Camp Fire training had taught her a beautiful sympathy and understanding. But Betty must have been made that way in the beginning, Polly concluded with a sigh and a smile. She had no such gift herself. The girl's story, fragmentary as it was, interested her, but there could be no possible point in undertaking to interfere with the child's future.

Nevertheless, try as she might, all night it was impossible for the famous actress to get the half tragic, half stupid figure of Bobbin out of her vision.

CHAPTER IX

Back in New Hampshire

BETTY was driving alone through one of the less crowded parts of Concord. She had been into the country and was now on her way home again. Not very often did she go out alone, but she had not felt in a mood for company and had purposely gotten away by herself.

A week had passed since her midnight talk with Anthony and there was still a coldness between them. Each day Betty had expected her husband to declare that he had changed his mind in regard to finding a position for John Everett and would do as she asked. Yet so far he had not even referred to the subject.

On her way home Betty considered that she had better stop and tell Meg how she had failed in influence with her husband, notwithstanding she could not decide just what she should do or say. Meg would not understand and might believe that she had made no real effort for John's sake. Yet she could not be such a coward as to leave her old friends in suspense. Since Anthony would do nothing to help, it was better that John Everett should know, so that he might find another occupation.

They were passing through a quiet street shaded by magnificent old maple trees that were now bare except for a few clustering brown leaves, when Mrs. Graham leaned over to speak to her coachman and the man drew in his horses. The next moment her attention was attracted by seeing some one on the sidewalk pause and lift his hat to her. Betty had returned the bow before she actually recognized John Everett. Then he took two or three steps forward and held out his hand.

"I was just going to see Meg," Betty explained, blushing and wishing that she could escape the confession that lay before her. If John should question her now she felt she might have a sudden panic of embarrassment. Of course she could think up some excuse for Anthony's unkindness; she might even offer the same excuse he had made to her. Yet the fact that he had declined to do what she so much desired would remain the same.

But John Everett was smiling in the most ordinary fashion.

"I wonder, Mrs. Graham, if you will not let me ride along with you, if you are going to Meg's. I am on the way home myself."

Then in a short while Betty had forgotten her worry and was having the same agreeable talk of old times that she had enjoyed the week before. Moreover, it was John Everett who relieved her from her chagrin.

"By the way," he began, just as they were about to arrive at Mrs. Jack Emmet's house, "please don't worry, Mrs. Graham, or Betty, if I may call you by the old name, about asking your husband to fix me up with a position in his office. I know the new Governor is being overwhelmed with office seekers. I have been lucky enough to secure something to do with my brother-in-law, Jack Emmet, and ex-Governor Peyton. They have a new business scheme on hand in which they think I may be useful."

Of course, Betty could not utter her thanksgiving aloud, although she repeated it very fervently to herself. So, after all, she need not confess to other people Anthony's lack of consideration. It was enough that she should be carrying the hurt feeling about inside her own heart. Instead, she merely murmured something or other that was not clear, about the Governor's having been so very busy recently and having some special annoyance in his affairs. She was by no means certain of just what she said at the moment nor how she explained the situation, but fortunately John Everett did not appear to be particularly interested in the subject.

Meg was not at home when they arrived, but instead of saying good-bye, John suggested that he should drive back to her own home with Betty. It had been years since they had seen each other, except the other evening, and there was so much to talk about.

Then John explained that he had taken a small house in Concord and that his father was soon coming to live with him. Bumps would continue with his course at Cornell for this winter anyhow. So, after all, there were uses in this world even for old bachelors, he ended smilingly.

It was Betty, however, who suggested that they should go and see this house, although John told her it was a good deal out of her way. Yet it was a beautiful warm November afternoon and would not be dark for another hour. Somehow Betty did not feel that she wanted to go home at once. Faith had gone for a walk with Kenneth Helm, Angel had a half holiday and was spending the afternoon with the children. She and Bettina had a wonderful secret game that they played together in a room by themselves, where no one else had ever been allowed to come. There was no prospect of Anthony's returning home for some time, so the Governor's splendid mansion would seem big and empty to the Governor's wife for an hour or so more at any rate.

There was a caretaker in the little white house with green shutters, who was anxious to show Mrs. Graham and Mr. Everett every detail of it. The house was to be let furnished and yet it seemed to have been peculiarly fitted for old Professor Everett's needs. It was pleasant for Betty to imagine the sweet-tempered, learned old man here with John and near his daughter Meg. He had been living alone in Woodford ever since his younger son, Horace, departed for college. Somehow Betty felt that it would be pleasant for her also to have the old gentleman living so near by. He had been a devoted friend of Mr. Ashton's, whom she had certainly loved even more than an own father.

"I shall be running in here very often to see Professor Everett and tell him the things that trouble me, just as Meg and I used to do when we were little girls," Betty remarked to her companion. "He was the one person who never by any possible chance believed that Meg or I could ever be in fault."

"I'm sure he will always be overjoyed to see you," John Everett replied. "Only it is a little difficult for me to imagine Mrs. Anthony Graham ever having anything to trouble her."

As the November evenings grew dark so soon, it was almost dusk when Betty at length entered her own home after saying good-bye to her friend, who had insisted on walking back to his sister's house instead of allowing the coachman to drive him.

Going into her private sitting room, Betty was surprised to find that Anthony had come home and was sitting there pretending to read. But most undeniably he looked cross.

"I thought we were going to have a drive and tea together, Betty," he remarked reproachfully. "Where in the world have you been? No one seemed to know. I should think you would leave word where you are going, so that if anything happened to the children or to me the servants would know where to find you."

Actually Anthony was reproaching her in a perfectly unreasonable fashion! Betty could hardly believe her ears, it was so unlike him. Was he going to turn into the dictatorial type of husband after all these years of married life when he had been so altogether different?

Usually Betty's temper was gracious and sweet. Possibly if Anthony had approached her in his usual fashion at this moment they might have gotten over the feeling of estrangement that had come between them for the first time since their wedding. Moreover, the room was not brightly lighted, so that Betty did not notice how tired and worried Anthony looked. Of course, fatigue and worry explain almost any temporary unreasonableness on the part of human beings.