"I shall never get over it," sniffed Aunt Agatha tragically. "Carl may
say what he will, I never shall. But now that I've come up here to see
her off, I've done my duty, I have indeed. And I do hope Carl hasn't any
wild ideas for the summer--I couldn't stand it. Allan, as long as Miss
Diane is camping within reasonable distance of the farm, you'd better
take the run-about each night and find her and see if she's all
right--and brush the snakes and bugs and things out of camp. If
everything wild in the forest collected around the camp fire, like as not
she wouldn't see them until they bit her."
The boy shifted a slim, bare leg and sniggered.
"Miss Westfall," he said, "Miss Diane she says she's a-goin' to a spot by
the river and camp a week an'--an' if she finds anybody a-follerin' or
spyin' on her from the farm, she'll skin him alive an'--an' them black
eyes o' her'n snapped fire when she said it. An' Johnny, he's got
weepons 'nough with him to fight pirutes."
Aunt Agatha groaned and rocking dolorously back and forth upon the porch
reviewed the calamitous possibilities of the journey.
But the restless young nomad on the road ahead, sniffing the rare, sweet
air of early summer, had already relegated the memory of her
long-suffering aunt to the forgotten things of civilization.
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