ature of it is the causeway which bisects it, forming
twin lakes, as it seems to the nearby beholder. But from a distant
elevation this straight clean roadway across the very center of the lake
stands out in bold relief, having none of the appearance of a bridge nor
yet of a dam. From this causeway people are permitted to fish and their
good luck is contemplated enviously by auto parties passing to and fro.

The scouts had no difficulty in finding the home of Miss Helen Shirley
Bates in this fair neighborhood. They were told to go up a road till
they came to another road and to go up that road till they saw a gray
house, etc., which direction brought them at last face to face with an
electric button which Pee-wee pushed.

By the luck which he claimed to be his, a girl of perhaps nineteen or
twenty came to the door, who proved to be none other than the young lady
of the calling card. Here, however, Pee-wee's luck deserted him.

"We're boy scouts and this is your card," said the young spokesman. "Do
you like fudge?" he added, producing also a specimen of his
confectionery skill.

"Oh I just adore it," said the girl, "but where did you get my card?
Won't you sit down?"

The scouts were glad to rest in the comfortable wicker chairs on the
deep, shady porch, and here the girl listened to Pee-wee's graphic
account of his finding of the old wallet. He explained that it was his
regular custom to find things and that this need give her no surprise.

"But to think that it had my card in it," she said; "and that it has
been stuck away in that damp, spooky place for two years. I think it's
_just wonderful_ for you to come and find me. And I think it's
lovely for you to want to send the letter to that soldier's mother; oh I
think it's just _fine_."

"Scouts have to do good turns," Pee-wee said.

"It makes me feel as if I can just see that soldier now," she said,
reading the old letter. "And to think he was on his way here. But I just
don't know any more about him than you do because he never got here. I
just don't know a _single thing_ about him."

"Not even his name?" Warde asked, hopefully.

"Not even his name. You see, I'll tell you how it was," she continued,
drawing her chair a little closer to them. "All the people around here
used to have soldiers from camp to dinner on Sundays."

"I know, they did that in Bridgeboro where we live," said Warde. "We had
a couple of them one Sunday."

"We just sent word to the Y.M