“But we mustn’t stay here,” went on Mrs. Bonnell after they had devoured—and I use the word advisedly—the last crumbs of the sandwiches. “We must keep on! We will simply have to find a place to stay to-night—if we can’t get back to camp. There must be farmhouses around here. This isn’t a desert, and that boat at Bear Pond showed that some one used it—even if it did leak.” “Don’t speak of Bear Pond!” pleaded Marie. “Now, dearie, don’t you worry!” exclaimed Alice, putting her arms around her chum. “It isn’t any more your fault than ours. We should be more like the boy scouts and ‘be prepared.’ That’s their motto, you know.” “But I lost the directions!” exclaimed Marie. “You couldn’t help it. Probably you pulled them out of your pocket with your handkerchief, dear. Don’t worry. We’ll get back to Dogwood Camp—someday.” “I’m glad we brought stuffed olives instead of those with pits in,” remarked Natalie. “Why?” her chums chorused. Natalie was always saying odd things, they thought. “Because there’s so much more meat to them. The seeds are wasteful.” They laughed, and it seemed to make them feel better. Then, with a warming of hands at the blaze, they prepared to set out again. “This path must lead _somewhere_!” exclaimed Mrs. Bonnell, as she and the girls carefully scattered the embers of the fire, and kicked damp earth on them to extinguish the brands. For they had adopted some of the tenets of the boy scouts, one of which is never to leave a burning camp fire to work damage. “And if we keep on it long enough we must come to some place!” declared Alice. “Even if it’s only a cow-shed.” “This does seem like a cow-path,” declared Natalie, “though it’s hard to tell what it is in the dusk.” “What—what are we going to do after dark?” whispered Mabel. “March along with this!” cried Mrs. Bonnell, flashing a small pocket electric lamp, operated by a dry battery. It contained a tungsten filament, and gave a glaring light, if it was limited as to area. “Oh, you dear—to think of bringing that!” cried Natalie. “I won’t be afraid now.” “Afraid—what is there to be afraid of?” insisted the Guardian, though it might be noted that she looked rather fearsomely back of her as she spoke. No one answered her. Once more they took up the march, as night slowly settled down. There would be an hour or more of rather dim daylight yet, for the days were long, but the clouds made it more gloomy than otherwise would have been the case. “There is a house!” suddenly called Marie. “Where?” they all demanded at once. “Right ahead of us. Oh, we’re all right now!” But it was not such a haven of refuge as they had supposed. For the ram-shackle old building was inhabited by an uncouth German, his wife and several very much soiled children. He could speak a little English—hardly enough to make himself understood, and the German essayed by the Camp Fire Girls was evidently beyond his comprehension, for he shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “Where were they?”