"Well! that little firefly, the tiny electric lamp--the 'wee bit battery', as Andrew calls it--will guide us to finding it when it drifts down," panted the other girl, excitement fixing that little peculiar stand, like a golden lamp, in her dark eye. "Yes, but--" perhaps her dream in the bungalow of Ta-te, the tempest, was affecting Pemrose--"but suppose, oh! suppose, that the wind--there is a wind--should waft it away--away from us, down the mountainside, to where we couldn't find it in the woods--dark woods--to where somebody, some horrid meddler, might pick it up, and get a look at the Thunder Bird's diary before us ... the first record from so high up. Oh--dear!" The girl's sigh was echoed by that stealthy wind around her, in whose every whisper there was menace, as it swept through the long grasses and ruffled the ash trees of Greylock's summit. Una, to whom this "half the battle", the quick locating of the parachute and its treasure, was not so vital, soared above all threat in this witching-time of excitement--the transcendent hour. "The Thunder Bird's diary! Oh-h! the Thunder Bird's diary," she repeated dreamily, as if reciting a charm. Being Camp Fire Girls of fervid imagination, the supreme invention, the beginning of old Earth's reaching out to the heavenly bodies, gained its crowning romance from them. As moment by moment flew by romance in their young breasts became a sort of rhapsody that set every thought to wild music. To Pem it was as she had dreamed it would be, away back in her father's laboratory, before the February train wreck. Hands seemed reaching out to her from everywhere,--she the satellite reflecting her father's light. From the four quarters of the habitable earth eyes seemed trained upon her, as she knelt in a little island of flashlight, with her thumb on an electric button which, connected by wires with a platform about a hundred feet away, would throw the switch and release the magic Bird to flying. "N-now, keep cool, Pem! Don't get excited--too ex-ci-ted--or-r you may miss the moment when they shout to you: 'R-ready! Shoot!'" breathed Una, so wrought up herself that her words had a sort of little zip, a hiss, in them, like the soft sighing of the breeze at the moment. Pemrose knew that her father's thoughts were taken up all the time with that summit breeze, on how far it might affect the safe return of the golden egg, as he hovered about the low platform, a hundred feet away, on which the little Thunder Bird was mounted, together with his young assistant tightening up every bolt and screw for the record flight. A third tall figure hovered near, within the ring of distant flashlight, that of Una's father, as transported now over the whole experiment as if he had never hinted that the far-flying rocket was a Quaker gun.