-camp in
the mountains had been slow and the boat that delivered the letter
brought also a telegram announcing Bassett's arrival in Chicago, so that
he was even now on his way to Waupegan. As Mrs. Bassett pondered this
intelligence Sylvia appeared at the veranda steps to inquire for Marian.

"She hasn't come down yet, Sylvia. You girls had a pretty lively day
yesterday and I told Marian she had better sleep a while longer."

"We certainly have the finest times in the world," replied Sylvia. "It
doesn't seem possible that I've been here nearly two weeks."

"I'm glad you're going to stay longer. Aunt Sally told me yesterday it
was arranged."

"We really didn't expect to stay more than our two weeks; but Mrs. Owen
made it seem very easy to do so."

"Oh, you needn't be afraid of outstaying your welcome. It's not Aunt
Sally's way to bore herself. If she didn't like you very much she
wouldn't have you here at all; Aunt Sally's always right straight out
from the shoulder."

"Marian has done everything to give me a good time. I want you to know I
appreciate it. I have never known girls; Marian is really the first
girl I have ever known, and she has taught me ever so many things."

"Marian is a dear," murmured Mrs. Bassett.

She was a murmurous person, whose speech was marked by a curious rising
inflection, that turned most of her statements into interrogatories. To
Sylvia this habit seemed altogether wonderful and elegant.

"Suppose we take a walk along the lake path, Sylvia. We can pretend
we're looking for wild flowers to have an excuse. I'll leave word for
Marian to follow."

They set off along the path together. Mrs. Bassett had never seemed
friendlier, and Sylvia was flattered by this mark of kindness. Mrs.
Bassett trailed her parasol, using it occasionally to point out plants
and flowers that called for comment. She knew the local flora well, and
kept a daybook of the wildflowers found in the longitude and latitude of
Waupegan; and she was an indefatigable ornithologist, going forth with
notebook and opera glass in hand. She spoke much of Thoreau and
Burroughs and they were the nucleus of her summer library; she said that
they gained tang and vigor from their winter hibernation at the cottage.
Her references to nature were a little self-conscious, as seems
inevitable with such devotees, but we cannot belittle the accuracy of
her knowledge or the cleverness of her detective skill in apprehending
the native flor