to swear he did it in whispers."

"Poor Billy! He's pretty young to begin camp life. There's good in
Billy. I wish Mr. Drew would make Peter send him to school."

"That's what he's planning to do."

Soon after this, when Jock started to go, he said: "So everything's fit
for a spell?"

"Everything Jock, until--"

They looked at each other mutely. Then Jock put his hand out awkwardly
and took Joyce's.

"Good-bye," he said quietly. His manner puzzled the girl.

"Life's a queer jamboree," he laughed lightly. "It's a heap easier to
stand it if you give yourself the hope of cutting it if you find the
pace too fast. So 'good-bye' is always in order even if you're going to
drop in to-morrow. Good-bye."

Joyce walked with him to the door. "Good-bye," she said with a growing
doubt in her heart; "good-bye, Jock--and I can never tell you how I
thank you."

It was many a long day before Joyce was to see Filmer again, and she
always felt that she knew it as she saw him pass beyond the pines after
that "good-bye."

* * * * *

Perhaps it was the boyish longing for Christmas cheer that struck such a
deadly blow at the heart of Billy, the fiddler, in Camp 7. Perhaps it
was the arrow that smites all, sooner or later. Be that as it may, as
Christmas drew near the mournful tunes Billy managed to saw from his
fiddle got on to the nerves of the men.

From remarks aimed at his efforts, pieces of wood and articles of
clothing were aimed at him, and Billy's life became a burden in the
dull, deep woods.

"I can't make jigs come," he whined one evening, "when I'm chock full of
hymn tunes."

"You'll be chock full of cold lead if you fill this hull camp with them
death dirges," warned one man who was bearing about all he could anyway.

"I wish to--I just wish I was plugged full of lead--and done for," was
Billy's unlooked-for reply; and then, to the surprise of all, he bent
his red curls over the fiddle and wept as only a homesick youngster can
weep when the barriers of his fourteen years are down, and the flood has
its way.

That night, Billy in his bunk, sleepless and consumed with longing for
home and the excitement of the bungalow element, planned desertion. At
midnight he crept to the larder and packed enough food to last for a
couple of days, at four o'clock he stole from the sleeping-shed, and,
cheered by the unanimous snores that rang in his ears, he turned his
freckled, determined face to