“Oh! let’s gather these red thorn-apples and buck-brush berries and make bracelets and strings of beads, and then dress up in blankets and play we are squaws,” suggested “Peter Pan,” as she began to fill her many pockets with the berries within her reach. Each one seemed bent on plucking the most and soon hats were brimming over. They sat in a bright, sunny exposure near the edge of the water and strung the red and white berries on long, stout threads, the while happy jokes were made, stories told or snatches of familiar songs were sung. As Bess began to sing again one of the familiar verses, “Peter Pan” checked her rather unceremoniously with, “Oh! please—Miss Bess, we have _sang_ that so many times already.” “My dearie, you mean to say—have—what?” corrected her mother. “I can’t tell, mother—I’m not that far yet in my book,” came the ever ready answer of the little grammarian. Bess had quietly slipped away while the others were still industriously threading their beads. Presently the three dogs, who were stretched out in the glorious warmth of the sunshine near the busy workers, suddenly came to their feet with a bound and ran barking savagely at a form approaching through the trees. As suddenly did they drop their tails between their legs and fawned at the feet of the blanketed intruder, as a familiar voice said softly yet commandingly, “Boys! Gladstone! Jack! What’s the fuss? Don’t you know me?” They could scarcely be blamed for their mistake, for Bess looked a veritable Indian. About her was a vivid blanket, a red cloth wound her forehead nearly concealing her hair which had been braided and hung down either side of her neck. A pair of moccasins (which Mrs. West had urged her to bring in case the nights might prove cold) and the coils of red and white beads completed her costume. “You look just like a really Indian girl,” cried “Peter Pan,” clapping her hands gleefully. “Why, even the dogs thought you were one too, didn’t they?” she added, with her deep blue eyes glowing with appreciation. “Here Bess, go down by the road and get us a few more of the thorn-apples; my string is not yet long enough,” said Mrs. Bland, as she and the others kept on with their task. “Oh, there are some splendid large ones!” said Bess to herself, as she caught sight of a clump of the brush, with shiny, red fruit a little way down the road. She wandered aimlessly on, watching the dust puff out as she made “toed-in” tracks with the moccasins. The choice place for thorn-apples had been passed, but then, that did not matter, as here were more directly ahead of her.