"Grab a pillow and come on," shouted Dotty as she herself picked up a pillow from the couch. Genie took one, too, and Dolly did also and then the whole tribe left the house.
They walked across some very uneven ground and Dolly would have stumbled in the darkness had not Mrs. Rose clasped her arm firmly.
"Here we are!" she said, and Dolly saw a large tent, but it wasn't exactly a tent. It was a platform of boards raised not more than a foot above the ground. It had a roof and three sides of canvas, but the front was entirely open. On the floor were piles of balsam boughs and on these the Roses arranged the blankets they had brought.
"I envy you girls," said Mrs. Rose, as she tucked up the impromptu beds. "It is Heavenly to sleep out here, but we older people dare not risk rheumatism. You'll love it, Dolly. Perhaps you'll hear an owl or two hooting you a lullaby."
In less than half an hour the three girls were put to bed and Mrs. Rose had said good-night and left them.
Dotty and Genie had murmured sleepy good-nights and had snuggled down into their spicy-smelling nests of branches.
Dolly lay with wide open eyes staring out at the stars. She had never experienced this sort of thing before, and she was frightened and uncomfortable. Although mid-summer, the air was chilly, and she did not like the feeling of the rather coarse blankets. Moreover she was wearing a thick, clumsy, flannel nightgown, and the bed of branches seemed to be full of knots and lumps. She longed for her own pretty room with its dainty appointments and soft bed clothing.
She looked across at Dotty and Genie. She could see them but dimly, but she knew they were sound asleep. She felt alone, utterly alone in that dreadful place, with the forest trees making a sad murmur and the silent stars winking solemnly at her. She thought of her mother and father and Trudy and Bert and she had the most dreadful wave of homesickness roll over her. Then the tears came, hot, scalding tears that rolled down her cheeks in ever increasing number. She made no noise, lest she waken the other girls but the effort to stifle her sobs made her cry harder, and she buried her face in the rough worsted of the sofa pillow and wiped her eyes with the harsh blanket.
"Oh, Mother," she said, to herself, "I can't stay here. This is a dreadful place. Why did you let me come? I knew I would hate a camp. How can anybody like these awful beds? And I'm cold,—and I'm not cold either, but I'm all shivery and I feel horrid! I'm—I'm—oh, I'm just lonesome and homesick and I want Mother!"
After a time Dolly stopped crying from sheer exhaustion and spent with her sobs, she lay there gazing at the stars. She felt sure there were bears and wolves among the trees, and soon they would come out and attack the camp.
Moreover, she was dreadfully hungry. She had a box of candy in her suitcase, but that was upstairs in the bungalow. She could not get it without disturbing Mr. and Mrs. Rose and that was not to be thought of.
The poor child lay for a time in her misery, every moment getting more and more homesick and with a deeper longing to get back to her mother and never leave home again.
At last a spirit of desperation took hold upon her. It was characteristic of Dolly Fayre to endure patiently and bravely the greatest trials that might come to her, but when the strain became too great it was in her nature to rebel, suddenly and decidedly.
And now, when it seemed that she simply could not stand the dreadfulness another moment, she sat straight up in bed, and said clearly, "I'm going home."
The sound of her own voice startled her and she looked round quickly to see if the other girls had heard her. She fully expected to see one or both heads pop up in amazement at her speech. But neither dark head moved, and listening to their regular breathing, she knew the two Rose girls were still sound asleep.
With her white face set and a desperate look in her wide open blue eyes, she put one foot out of bed and then the other. She had on her stockings, as Mrs. Rose had advised her to wear them all night. Silently and swiftly she discarded the flannel nightgown, which was one of Dotty's, and with flying fingers, which trembled with a nervous chill, she rapidly dressed herself in the garments she had worn when she arrived.
Her hat and coat were at the bungalow, but she did not stop for them. She was determined to go home that very minute, and she would let nothing interfere.
Fully dressed she went over and looked down at the sleeping Dotty. It seemed awful to go away and leave her like that, but Dolly knew if she waited till morning the Roses would not let her go. And yet she must leave word of some sort or they would think her very rude and ungrateful.
She had with her a little shopping bag, which, as it contained some money, she had put under her pillow. Luckily there was paper and pencil in this on which she had planned to write a letter to her mother.
So with an uncertain hand, in the dim light, she traced the words: "Dear Dotty, I can't stay here, I've got to go back to Mother. Good-bye. Dolly."
This she slipped gently beneath Dotty's pillow, and then stepping softly to the open edge of the tent she stepped down to the ground and walked swiftly toward the lake.
Chapter IX.
Dolly's Escape
Dolly had learned as they came up the lake in the motor boat that there was a footpath along the lake shore which led directly from the camp to the railroad station. It was about a mile long and passed several other camps, but Dolly felt sure that she could walk the distance, and allowing time to rest now and then could reach the station before six o'clock, when the first morning train went through. The dim starlight just enabled her to make out by her little watch that it was two o'clock when she started. She felt no fear of bears or wolves now, for her whole mind and soul were filled with the one idea of going home. She would have started, had the road been lined with hot ploughshares, so indomitable was her will and so strong her resolution. She gave no thought or heed to possible difficulties or dangers. She knew the way, there was no chance of getting lost, and she had in her bag money enough to buy a ticket home. She felt guilty and even ashamed at leaving her kind friends in this manner, but that thought was swallowed up and lost sight of in the terrible gnawing agony of her longing for home.
So she set forth along the path at a swift, steady gait which promised fair for the accomplishment of her design. As she walked along the stars seemed brighter and seemed to wink at her more kindly, as if willing to do all they could to help along a poor little homesick, mother-lonely child. Though without hat or coat, her swift pace kept her warm enough for a time, but at last poor little Dolly grew very weary. She had not walked much since her illness and her newly mended leg felt the strain and began to ache terribly. She sat down to rest on a flat stone and was surprised to find that her leg ached worse sitting down than it had walking. Moreover, when she stopped exercising, she became very chilly and in addition to this she realised afresh that she was exceedingly hungry.
Poor little Dolly! She could scarcely have been more physically miserable, and yet her material discomfort was as nothing to her pangs of homesickness. She felt she could not pursue her journey, and yet it made her shudder to think of returning to that awful camp.
So after a time, hoping she had rested enough, she rose and plodded on again. She kept up this means of procedure, walking until utterly exhausted and then stopping to rest, until somehow she managed to cover the distance to the station.
It was half-past four when she reached the forlorn little building and found it closed and deserted. But there was a bench outside and Dolly sank upon this in a state bordering upon utter collapse. She fell asleep there and was only awakened when, shortly before six, the station agent came to unlock his office.
"Bless my soul! who are you?" he exclaimed, and Dolly sat up blinking in the early sunlight.
"I'm a