“Well, here’s one way not to forget,” said Mrs. Bonnell. “There, breath-of-the-pine-tree, we’ll know this white birch when we meet it again,” and with a hairpin the Guardian began making a series of zig-zag scratches on the white silver-like bark of a sapling that stood along the path. “Oh, don’t ever tell the boys you did that!” gasped Marie. “Why not?” Mrs. Bonnell wanted to know. “Is it against the law to scratch a tree I’d like to ask? That isn’t any worse that chipping it with a hatchet.” “Oh, but blazing a trail with hairpins!” gasped Marie, laughing heartily. “What would the boy scouts say? We might as well scatter side combs along the trail, or take a skein of baby ribbon with us, tying the loose end to our tent pole, and unreeling it as we go along. Don’t tell the boys—Camp Fire Girls blazing a trail with hairpins! Oh, dear!” “I don’t see but what it is just as good as when done with a hatchet,” said Mrs. Bonnell, imperturbed. “And you are far less likely to cut yourself. I shall blaze our trail with hairpins, girls, the accepted boy scout method to the contrary notwithstanding.” And she did, not heeding the laughter of the girls. At every tree with a light-hued enough bark to permit of it, she made her mystic scratches with the hairpin points, sometimes drawing a fantastic figure, Indian fashion, which further increased the mirth of the girls. “How far did your bashful youth say it was?” asked Mabel, after a pause, during which they climbed a little rise, passing under great pine trees, the needles of which made a slippery, brown, woodland carpet beneath their feet. “Oh, you’re coming to think that he wasn’t such a bad guide after all then?” demanded Marie, a trifle mollified. “I just want to see how nearly he can estimate the distance,” was the answer. “He said it was five miles—five short ones,” and Marie hastily corrected herself. “And the path a straight one?” “No, indeed. We have to turn to the right after we pass the spring which is near the ruins of an old house. Oh, I’ve got it all written down,” and Marie began searching for the pocket of the short brown skirt that with the middy-blouse, and low shoes, formed the Camp Fire Girls’ outfit. A blank look came over her face. “What’s the matter?” asked Natalie. “That paper—my directions. I wrote them down on a slip of paper. I was sure I put it in my pocket—I know I did—but now——” She turned the pocket inside out, but a handkerchief, and a few other personal belongings, was all that came to view. “Maybe it’s in with the lunch,” suggested Alice. They had brought along some sandwiches, and a large bottle of olives, stuffed with Pimento peppers, for they did not expect to get back to camp for dinner. But an inspection of the several packets into which the “eats”, as Alice called them, were divided, disclosed no chart, map or other sailing directions for locating the Gypsy camp.