"Where who is?" demanded her chum sleepily.
"That girl. Ida Bellethorne. If she came up here on a wild goose chase
after her aunt, and found only a horse, what will become of her?"
"I haven't the least idea," confessed Bobby.
"Did she return before this blizzard set in, or is she still up here in
the woods? And what will become of her?"
"Gracious!" exclaimed the sleepy Bobby, "let's go to sleep and think about
Ida Bellethorne to-morrow."
"And I wonder if it is possible that she can know anything about my
locket," was another murmured question of Betty's. But Bobby had gone fast
asleep then and did not answer.
Under the radiance of the big oil lamp hanging above the kitchen table,
the table itself covered with an old-fashioned red and white checked
cloth, the young folks bound for Mountain Camp ate breakfast. And such a
breakfast!
Buckwheat cakes, each as big as the plate itself with "oodles of butter
and real maple syrup," to quote Bob.
"We don't even get as good as this at Salsette," said Tommy Tucker grimly.
"Oh, cracky!"
"I want to know!" gibed his twin, borrowing a phrase he had heard New
England Libbie use on one occasion.
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