it's an Indian who has worn them. Did you ever see an Indian with a
foot like that?"

Indignation enabled Aunt Caroline to disclaim acquaintance with any
Indian feet whatever.

"It's a white girl's moccasin," he assured her. "Lots of girls wear
them in camp. Or," hastily, "it may be a curiosity. Benis may be making
a collection."

Aunt Caroline snorted. Her gaze was fixed with almost piteous intensity
upon the tent.

"D'you think I might go in?" she faltered.

"You might" said John carefully.

Aunt Caroline sighed.

"How dreadful to have traditions!" she murmured. "There's no real
reason why I shouldn't go in. And," with grim honesty, "if you weren't
here watching I believe I'd do it. Anyway we may have to, if they don't
come soon. I can't sit on this grass. I'm sure it's damp."

"I'll get you a chair from Benis's tent," offered John unkindly. "There
are no traditions to forbid that, are there?"

"No. And, John--you might look around a little? Just to make sure."

The doctor nodded. He had every intention of looking around. He felt,
in fact, entitled to any knowledge which his closest observation might
bring him. But the tent was almost empty. That at least proved that the
tent belonged to Spence. He was a man with an actual talent for
bareness and spareness in his sleeping quarters. Even his room at
school had possessed that man-made neatness which one associates with
sailor's cabins and the cells of monks. The camp-bed was trimly made, a
dressing-gown lay across a canvas chair, a shaving mug hung from the
centre pole--there was not so much as a hairpin anywhere.

John crossed thoughtfully to the folding stand which stood with its
portable reading lamp beside the bed. There was one unusual thing
there, a photograph. Benis, as his friend knew, was an expert amateur
photographer--but he never perched his photographs upon stands. This
one must be an exception, and exceptions are illuminating.

It was still quite light inside the tent and the doctor could see the
picture clearly. It was an extraordinarily good one, quite in the
professor's happiest style. Composition, lighting, timing, all were
perfect. But it is doubtful if John Rogers noticed any of these
excellencies. He was absorbed at once and utterly in the personality of
the person photographed. This was a girl, bending over a still pool.
The pose was one of perfectly arrested grace and the face which was
lifted, as if at the approach of someone, loo