bout. She took a novel, of which, during
her whole stay in camp, she had read perhaps ten pages, and left the
cabin, this time by the door.

"How does your individuality treat you?" asked Mrs. Archibald, as Margery
approached her.

"Oh, horribly, so far," was the answer; "but I think it is going to do
better. I shall find some nice place where I can read and be undisturbed.
I can think of nothing pleasanter such a morning as this."

"I am very much mistaken in your nature," thought Mrs. Archibald, "if that
is the sort of thing that suits you."

"Martin," said Margery, not in the least surprised that she should meet
the young guide within the next three minutes, "do you know of some really
nice secluded spot where I can sit and read, and not be bothered? I don't
mean that place where you hung the hammock. I don't want to go there
again."

Martin was pale, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "Miss Dearborn," said
he, "I think it is a wicked and a burning shame that you should be forced
to look for a hiding-place where you may hope to rest undisturbed if that
scoundrel in the boat out there should happen to fancy to come ashore. But
you needn't do it. There is no necessity for it. Go where you please, sit
where you please, and do what you please, and I will see to it that you
are not disturbed."

"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Margery. "That would never do. I know very well
that you could keep him away from me, and I am quite sure that you would
be glad to do it, but there mustn't be anything of that kind. He is Miss
Raybold's brother and--and in a way one of our camping party, and I don't
want any disturbances or quarrels."

Martin's breast heaved, and he breathed heavily. "I have no doubt you are
right," he said--"of course you are. But I can tell you this: if I see
that fellow troubling you again I'll kill him, or--"

"Martin! Martin!" exclaimed Margery. "What do you mean? What makes you
talk in this way?"

"What makes me?" he exclaimed, as if it were impossible to restrain his
words. "My heart makes me, my soul makes me. I--"

"Your heart? Your soul?" interrupted Margery. "I don't understand."

For a moment he looked at the astonished girl in silence, and then he
said: "Miss Dearborn, it's of no use for me to try to hide what I feel. If
I hadn't got so angry I might have been able to keep quiet, but I can't do
it now. If that man thinks he loves you, his love is like a grain of sand
compared to mine."

"Yours?"