"No," said Gerald; "the Blanks have nothing to do with it. This is Dorothy's party. It shall be called Camp Calvert."

"I protest," said Dorothy. "It's no more my party than yours, Gerald Blank, even if it is given in honor of my home-coming."

"It shall be Camp Calvert," Gerald persisted.

"Well, we'll submit it to arbitration. Jim, you have taken no part in the controversy. Shall we name it Camp Blank or Camp Calvert?"

"Neither," said Jim.

"What!" cried Dorothy and Gerald in a breath.

"Oh, come now, Jim!" This from Aunt Betty.

"No," said Jim, "we'll call it neither. You've left the matter to me, so we'll call it Camp Breckenridge after Molly, but we'll make it Camp 'Breck' for short."

"No, no," said Molly. "I shan't permit it."

But Molly's protests were quickly overridden, and with the discussion at an end, the members of the party went about the various tasks they had set themselves to do.

Getting a hand-ax from the tool box, Gerald took Jim and marched off into the woods, while Ephraim was delegated to stay behind and "tote"

things for the ladies.

First, an imaginary plan was drawn of the camp--just where the tents would go; where the camp-fire should be to get the best draught; which direction the breeze was coming from, so the tent flaps might be left back at night for the comfort of the sleepers; and the many other little details which a woman and several girls will always think of.

By the time Gerald and Jim returned, bearing several tent poles and an armful of stakes, all matters had been definitely settled. The first tent was pitched between two huge oak trees, which threw their shade for yards around. The other, which was to house the boys and Ephraim, was placed a short distance to the rear in a clump of smaller trees, but within a few steps of the rear of the ladies'

quarters.

Once the tents were up, Ephraim was instructed to kindle a fire, which he did very quickly, his camping experience having been of a wide and varied nature.

While the fire was blazing merrily as if to welcome the campers to the newly-organized Camp Breck, the mistress of Bellvieu bustled about in a nimble fashion for one of her years, directing the preparation of the meal.

Molly was set peeling potatoes, while Dorothy and Aurora spread the table cloth in a level spot on the soft gra.s.s, and began to distribute the tin plates, steel knives and forks and other utensils which had been purchased especially for the camp.

Soon affairs were moving merrily, and the party sat down to lunch shortly after one, half-famished but happy, little dreaming of the thrilling adventure which was to befall them ere another day had pa.s.sed.

CHAPTER VI

A CRY IN THE NIGHT

In the late afternoon, after the girls and Aunt Betty had taken their naps, Gerald suggested a jaunt down the mountainside toward the valley. The suggestion was eagerly accepted by Aurora, Dorothy, Molly and Jim. Aunt Betty agreed that she would stay with Ephraim to look after the camp, being unable to do the climbing which would be necessary on the return.

No Alpine stocks had been brought, but Gerald and Jim again sallied forth with the hand-ax, the result being that in a short while the entire party was equipped with walking sticks.

Telling Aunt Betty good-by, and warning Ephraim not to stray away from his mistress during their absence, they soon were off down the pathway leading toward the village in the valley.

"I'll tell you, girls, there's some cla.s.s to this outing," said Gerald, who, with Dorothy, led the way.

Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind.

"This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen," said Molly. "The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and ever."

"Come--don't get poetical, Molly," warned Jim. "This is a very modern gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated."

"Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow, and you know it!"

"Sounded like blank verse to me," and Jim grinned.

"You mustn't blame me for being enthused over such sights as these.

If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly deficient in your make-up."

"That's right, Molly; rub it in," Dorothy said, over her shoulder.

"Jim is entirely too practical--too prosaic--for this old world of ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other amus.e.m.e.nts, and poetry is naturally included."

"Hopelessly overruled," murmured Jim. "So sorry I spoke. Go ahead, Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and--and--"

"Pills?" suggested Aurora.

"Well, anything you wish; I'm no poet."

"You're no poet, and we all know it," hummed Aurora.

"I dare you girls to go as far as the village!" cried Dorothy.

"How about the boys?" Gerald wanted to know.

"They are included in the dare, of course."

"Well, I'll have to take the dare," said Molly. "That village is too far for me to-day."

"Why, it's only a short way down the valley," Dorothy protested.

"It's several miles, at least," said Jim.

"Oh, come!"

"Why, yes; distances are very deceptive in this part of the country."

Dorothy could not be convinced, so the others decided to keep on until the girl realized that she had misjudged the distance, and asked to turn back.

They did not know Dorothy Calvert.

The path led down the mountainside and into a broad road which followed the bank of a stream. Somehow, when this point was reached, the village seemed no nearer.

Dorothy uttered no protest, however. But the others exchanged glances, as if to say: