When the Girl Scouts finished their ice-cream, they sat for a few minutes in the little drug store at Rikers, waiting for Ruth to return from her errand.

“She certainly is a devoted daughter,” remarked Alice, as she directed, with a spluttering, over-worked pen, a souvenir postal to her mother. “I never would think of sending a telegram!”

“Ruth’s an only child,” explained Lily; “and it makes a difference, I can tell you.”

“But you didn’t send your parents a telegram, Lil!” put in Marjorie.

“No—they’re away, somewhere. But I do write often.”

Tired of waiting for Ruth, the girls started toward the inn, and met her almost at the steps. They were glad of the opportunity to go to bed early that they might make a good start in the morning.

“And today’s Thursday,” remarked Miss Phillips, as they left the inn before seven o’clock the following morning. “I think we ought to make it by Saturday night. I sent a postal announcing our arrival for then, anyhow.”

“And to whom did you announce it?” asked Ruth,108 hoping to catch her captain unawares and cause her to give away the secret. But Miss Phillips only smiled knowingly.

“This is the earliest start we have made yet,” she said; “but then we had no breakfast to cook, or tents to take down.”

The girls paddled steadily all day. At last they came in sight of the big mill which Miss Phillips had designated as their camping spot. Ruth, however, was less interested in that than in the farm near by; for, sure enough, it was there, only instead of being opposite the mill, it was on the same side of the stream, a little farther down.

She had never confided to the other scouts the rumors that Michael had repeated about the woman who lived there. Indeed, she scarcely believed them herself, for she knew that gossiping people usually build stories about lonely, isolated lives. Nor had she any desire to frighten the girls; on the contrary she wanted to get Marjorie—and Frieda, if possible—to visit the farm. She resolutely kept all her information to herself. Only Harold Mason shared her knowledge.

Once she was sure of the farm, her next problem was how to get Marjorie there on some ordinary pretext. But she did not have to think hard; the difficulty practically solved itself. Before their very eyes, as they passed by, loomed a whole orchard of magnificent peaches—just about ripe! To the109 scouts, who had eaten little except dried fruit since they had left home, the display was most alluring. And Ruth lost no opportunity in mentioning them at every chance, in order to make the girls’ mouths water all the more.

Accordingly, the next morning, soon after breakfast, she remarked,

“I’ve simply got to have some of those peaches! Captain, couldn’t Marj and I paddle back to that farm-house and buy some for the rest of the trip? Our supplies aren’t very heavy now, are they?”

Miss Phillips considered; it was Friday. Even if the weather continued favorable and conditions good, they could not reach their destination before Saturday night. So there were two days left to the journey; and girls can eat a lot in two days. It was true, too, as Ruth said, that their baggage was light. So, for all these reasons Miss Phillips gave her consent to Ruth’s proposal, cautioning her, however, not to buy too many.

“I’ll give you a dollar out of the fund,” she said; “and you may buy as much as you can for that.”

Ruth and Marjorie jumped up in great glee, and made haste to go and load their canoe. The others lingered a little.

“We better go in Will-o’-the-Wisp,” said Ruth. “Doris, will you go with Lilian in Water-Witch?”

“Anything to get some of those peaches!”

110 “Don’t wait for us to come back here!” called Ruth; “we’ll paddle on, and meet you later. We can’t get lost; if we’re too speedy for you,” she added laughingly, “we’ll meet you at the next camp site—up by the bend!”

“Well, don’t eat all the peaches!” called Ethel, as they started off.

But Ruth was not yet satisfied; she had no intention of going to the farm herself. She knew she must, in some way, contrive to substitute Frieda for herself. Before they reached the bank, she stopped short.

“Hang it all!” she exclaimed, apparently annoyed. “I’ve got a nail in my shoe.”

“Shall I go get the hammer?” suggested Marjorie.

“No—I’d better go, for if I can’t get it out, I’ll have to get the sneakers out of our bag. But say, this means delay. Could you go for the peaches by yourself?”

“All right; certainly.”

“No, you better not, either,” decided Ruth, pretending to be very solicitous about Marjorie’s welfare; “you’d better get another girl. Ho—Frieda!”

Frieda appeared in a second, accepted the explanation, and took Ruth’s place. The latter returned to the group of scouts, now ready to depart, and made elaborate pretense at fixing an imaginary nail in her shoe. The operation, however, seemed to be quickly111 performed; in less than five minutes the scouts had pushed off, with now only four instead of five canoes in the party.

Meanwhile, Marjorie and Frieda made for the opposite direction. Arriving at their destination before the remainder of the party had even started, they tied their canoe securely to a tree-trunk, and walked towards the farm-house.

“I hope whoever lives there doesn’t bite our heads off,” observed Marjorie.

Looking all around, they saw no one in sight, and proceeded towards the front door.

“Don’t go to the front door, Marj!” said Frieda, stopping suddenly. “Country people always use their kitchens most of all. Let’s go there!”

Accordingly, they passed around to the rear of the house. Peering through the screen door of the kitchen, they beheld an attractive interior—neat and clean and well kept. At the far corner, beside the stove, they distinguished the stout figure of a woman bending over a pan. Marjorie knocked timidly.

“Come in!” called the woman, cheerily. Then, turning around, she opened her eyes wide in amazement at the sight of the two young girls.

“How do you do?” said Marjorie pleasantly, as she and Frieda entered the big room. “We belong to the girls who camped last night a little way up the stream, and we want to know whether you will112 sell us a dollar’s worth of peaches. They looked delicious.”

The woman smiled with pleasure. A workman loves to hear praise of his achievements, and the peach orchard was this lonely woman’s one happiness and pride. For the moment, she forgot the part she was to play in her sheer delight at the compliment.

“Yes, I growed them all myself. Been livin’ here nigh on to thirty year—” she was about to say, “by myself” but caught herself in time, and added, “me and my husband. And if I do say it myself, it’s a fine crop of peaches I’ve got. I never have no trouble sellin’ them.”

“And do you do all the work yourself?” questioned Frieda. “Doesn’t your husband help you?”

The woman shook her head. “No, he runs the car into Besley and other towns and sells ’em, but I do all the growin’. He never seemed to have no luck. But set down a minnit, and I’ll give you some doughnuts and fresh milk.”

“Thanks,” said Marjorie, gratefully. “But I almost think we o............