"Thank you, dear," returned Howard laughing. "You're at least ten shades
blacker than anybody else; and Charlie is so dark that his patch hasn't
showed any for five days."

"How about the freckles?" inquired Charlie composedly. "I don't care;
I've had a good time, and maybe 'twon't be fast color."

"It won't hurt you, Charlie," remarked the doctor. "You started off
looking rather too white, after living in the dark for a month. This
camping trip has been the best thing you could have had."

The two weeks had certainly done the boy good, and, removed from any
temptation to use his eyes, he had given them the utter rest which they
demanded, until they had nearly regained their former strength. Dr.
Brownlee watched him approvingly for a moment. Notwithstanding the dark
sunburn on his cheeks and the shade over his right eye, it was an
attractive face, in spite of its lack of real beauty, such as had fallen
to the share of Ned and Grant.

"It has been immense," said the boy regretfully. "But maybe we can come
out again, next summer."

"Don't flatter yourself with any such notion," said Howard. "If you'd
been with papa as long as I have, you'd know that there isn't much
chance of our being here, by another summer. He may be ordered to
Alaska or Arizona, by that time; and we'll have to 'hoppee 'long, too.'"

"Just this way," interposed Grant, starting up abruptly with an inviting
chirrup to Ben, who scrambled to his feet with a suddenness which sent
the three boys rolling into an indiscriminate pile among the blankets,
as their pillow went rushing away across the camp, in pursuit of some
imaginary intruder.

It was late that night when the party finally broke up and went to their
tents; it was later still before the usual gentle snores arose from Mrs.
Pennypoker's corner. Soon afterwards, the silence of the night was
broken by the sound of stealthy footsteps, coming up the river bank from
the engineers' tents. A moment later, the music from a full orchestra of
combs roused the sleepers from their dreams.

"Farewell, farewell, my own true love!" they wailed, in a gusty and
oft-repeated chorus, until even Ben's feelings overpowered him, and,
running to the door of the tent, he raised his nose towards the waning
moon, and howled till his voice was husky. Then the swaying curtain at
the doorway of the tent dropped once more, and all was still. The play
was over, and the orchestra had ceased. Camp Burnam's story was end