“Oh, if we could only bribe a few lightning bugs to stay on each chipped-off place,” suggested Marie, “we could easily pick out the path then.” They laughed at her quaint conceit, and proceeded. The way was easier than the first one they had essayed, and they made better time. In the distance they had occasional glimpses of farmhouses set down in some hollow. Farmhouses of an ancient régime, it seemed, since the land about them was little tilled now. There were only small gardens, not prolific ones at that. They came from the path out upon a country road, with many and deep ruts in its dirt surface. “We are to keep along this for half a mile, and then take the path to the right,” read Marie from the written directions that had not been forgotten this time. “Oh, there’s an old well sweep, and I’m sure there must be an old oaken bucket going with it!” cried Mabel. “I must have a drink,” and she started toward the gate of a farmhouse they were approaching. “The germ-covered bucket!” murmured Alice. “I’d rather have a tin pail.” As they reached the gate a yellow cur rushed out at them, barked vociferously and interspersing his disapproval with snarls of anger. “Oh, mercy!” cried Natalie, shrinking back. “Good doggie! Good old fellow!” called Mrs. Bonnell, coming to a standstill, while the girls huddled behind her. “Nice old chap!” “He isn’t at all nice!” declared Alice. “How can you say such things?” “That’s always the way to talk to barking dogs,” insisted the Guardian. “Don’t let them see that you fear them.” “No—don’t!” laughed Natalie, as she saw the fear-huddled group. “We are a living monument to—bravery!” “Maybe his bark is worse than his bite,” whispered Mabel. The dog did not seem disposed to retreat. He had run out into the road, and disputed their progress, in spite of the many soothing “good-doggie!” and “Nice old fellow!” verbal sops that Mrs. Bonnell threw to him. “Maybe he’s hungry!” suggested Marie. “Wait a minute!” She began exploring the lunch basket she carried and presently threw something to the cur. He made a spring for it, and then bolted into the yard. “Why, Natalie Fuller!” cried Alice aghast. “That was one of our best chicken sandwiches!” “You didn’t think I’d give him anything but the best; did you?” inquired Natalie, as she tossed back her long braids. “I was going to offer him some olives, but he didn’t stay for dessert. Come on, girls. Now he’s gone we can advance.” “I don’t believe I want a drink—at least not here,” said Alice. “But we can get past the house, and maybe there’s a spring farther on.” The dog evidently accepted the chicken sandwich as a peace offering for he barked no more. There was no sign of life about the house as the girls passed it. They soon came to a roadside watering-trough, cut out of one solid log, into which, from a wooden spout, there flowed a stream of clear, cold water.