The Camp Fire Girls Do Their Bit | Page 9

you
were a professor, and now Sahwah was right after all. You are a lawyer,
aren't you? I believe Agony said you were."
"I am," replied Mr. Wing with a twinkle in his eye, "and I'm more than
delighted to meet you. Come along, and we'll see if we can't get to
Oakwood before dark."
Then the whimsical artist came up and addressed Mr. Wing. "Did I hear
you say you could get to Oakwood on the electric?" he inquired. "I'm
going there too. My name is Prince, Eugene Prince."
"Glad to meet you," replied Mr. Wing heartily. "Come along." He
summoned the porter to carry out the various suitcases.
Before long the little party were aboard the electric car, and reached
Oakwood almost as soon as they would have if the train had not been
held up. The electric car went by the railway station and the
Winnebagos got off, because Nyoda would be waiting for them there.
Mr. Wing and the artist went on to the center of the town.
CHAPTER III
CARVER HOUSE
Nyoda was waiting for them on the platform, looking just as she used

to, radiant, girlish, enthusiastic, bubbling over with fun. Not a shade of
sadness or anxiety in her face betrayed the loneliness in her heart and
her longing for the presence of the dear man she had sent forth in the
cause of liberty. In respect to sorrows, Nyoda's attitude toward the
world had always been, "Those which are yours are mine, but those
which are mine are my own."
Encircled by four pairs of Winnebago arms and with eager questions
being hurled at her from all sides, it seemed as if the old times had
come again indeed.
"Sahwah! Migwan! Hinpoha! Gladys!" she exclaimed joyfully, looking
at them with beaming eyes. "My own Winnebagos! But come, I'm
dying to show you my new playhouse," and she led the way across the
station platform to where her automobile stood waiting.
A swift spin along a quiet avenue bordered with immense old oaks that
stood like rows of soldiers at attention, and up quite a steep hill, from
which they could look back upon the houses and buildings clustering in
the valley, which was the heart of the town, and then they drew up
before a very old brick house which stood on the summit of the hill. It
had green blinds and a fanlight over the front door, and a brick walk
running from the front steps to the street, bordered on each side by a
box hedge in a prim, Ladies' Garden effect like one sees in the
illustrations of children's poems.
"Oh, Nyoda, how splendid!" cried Hinpoha, her artistic soul delighted
beyond measure at the hedge and the walk and the white door with its
quaint knocker.
"Wait until you see the inside," replied Nyoda, throwing open the door
with the pleased air of a child exhibiting a new and cherished toy.
Cries of admiration and delight filled the air as the Winnebagos entered.
The whole house was furnished just as it might have been in the old
Colonial days--braided rugs on the floor, candlesticks in glass holders,
slender-legged, spindle-backed chairs, quaint mahogany tables, a huge
spinning wheel before the fireplace, and, wonder of wonders! between

the two end windows of the stately parlor there stood a harp, the late
sunshine gleaming in a soft radiance from its gilded frame and slender
wires like the glory of a by-gone day. Hinpoha stood enraptured before
the instrument.
"I've always been wild to learn to play on a harp," she said, drawing her
fingers caressingly over the strings and awaking faint, throbbing tones,
too soft to be discords, that echoed through the room like the ghost of a
song played years ago, and trembled away until they seemed to mingle
with the golden light that flooded the room through the west windows.
"If I had my choice of being any of the fabulous creatures in the
mythology book," said Hinpoha musingly, "I think I'd choose to be a
harpy."
"A what?" asked Nyoda quizzically.
"A harpy," repeated Hinpoha, touching the strings again. Then, looking
up and seeing the twinkle in Nyoda's eye, she added, "Weren't the
Harpies beautiful maidens that sat on the rocks and played harps and
lured the sailors to destruction with their ravishing songs? Oh, I say,
they were too," she finished feebly, amid a perfect shout of laughter
from the girls. "Well, what were they, then? Horrible monsters? Oh,
what a shame! What a misleading thing the English language is,
anyway! You'd naturally expect a harpy to play on a harp. Anyway,
you needn't laugh, Sahwah. I remember once you said in class that a
peptonoid was a person with a lot of pep, so there!"
Sahwah joined gaily in