ed the
lower end of a lawn; sloping gently downward, a hundred yards or more,
from a gray old house which nestled happily among mighty oaks on a
plateau at the low hill's summit.

The point (with its patch of beach-sand at the water's edge, and with
comfortable shade from a lakeside tree or so), promised an ideal
picnic-ground. The shaven grass not only offered fine possibilities for
an after-luncheon snooze; but was the most convenient sort of place for
the later strewing of greasy newspapers and Japanese napkins and wooden
platters and crusts and chicken bones and the like.

Moreover, a severely plain "No Trespass" sign, at the lake-margin,
would serve as ideal kindling for a jolly little camp-fire. There is
always a zest in using trespass boards for picnic fires. Not only are
they seasoned and painted in a way to cause quick ignition, but people
laugh so appreciatively, when one tells, afterward, of the bit of
jovial audacity.

Yes, this point was just the place for luncheon and for siesta. It
might have been made to order. And by tacit consent the two paddlers
sent their multi-chrome canoe sweeping toward it. Five minutes later,
they had helped the girls ashore and were lifting out the lunch-basket
and various newspaper parcels and the red-and-purple cushions.

With much laughter and a snatch or two of close harmony, the lunch was
spread. One of the men picked out a place for the fire (against the
trunk of a two-century oak; perhaps the millionth noble old tree to be
threatened thus with death from care-free picnickers' fires) and the
other man sauntered across to the trespass board to annex it for
kindling.

Everything was so happy and so complete and everyone was having such a
perfect time! Into such moments Fate loves best to toss Trouble. And,
this day, Fate played true to form.

As the fire-maker's hand was laid on the trespass board, even as his
inconsequential muscles were braced to rip it loose from its post,--a
squeal from the girl in the blue picture hat and the Nile-green
georgette waist, checked his mirthful activities.

Now, there was nothing remarkable in the fact that the chromatic lass
had squealed. Indeed, she and her equally fair companion had been
squealing at intervals, all morning. But there was nothing coquettish
or gay about this particular squeal. It savored rather of a screech. In
its shrill note was a tiny thread of terror. And the two men wheeled
about, to look.

The blue-hatted