“Mollie’s Uncle John said he would attend to that! stocking the cabin with good things, I mean,” said Betty, herself suddenly conscious of a disturbingly hungry feeling. “He said we would find enough canned things to last us at least a week.” “Canned things, yes,” pouted Grace. “But who in the world wants to live on canned things? I don’t see why we didn’t bring a chicken along, at least.” “Well, maybe we can manage to run over one,” chuckled Betty, as they passed a farmhouse and several chickens scuttled squawking across the road. “Then we can have one good and fresh. For goodness’ sake, what is Mollie tooting that horn for?” she added, as the raucous signal came from the car behind them. “Has she stopped the car, Grace? Look and see.” “It’s stopped deader than a door nail,” said Grace, obligingly screwing about in her seat and fixing on the road behind them a disapproving eye. “Now what do you suppose can be the trouble this time? If she has had a blowout or something, I’m not going to help fix the old thing!!” “You couldn’t fix the blowout, dear, but you might help with the tire,” Betty said, with a laugh, as she stopped the roadster and jumped to the road. “Come on, she seems to be excited about something!!” “Goodness, I hope it isn’t another highway robber,” said Grace anxiously, stopping in the middle of the road at the dreadful thought. “I don’t see any, but!!” “You don’t see any because there _isn’t_ any,” Betty assured her, taking her by the arm and leading her decidedly forward. “You don’t suppose there is a whole Robin Hood’s band in this woods, do you?” Mollie and Amy and Mrs. Irving came running to meet them excitedly! or at least, Mollie and Amy did the running, while their chaperon followed more slowly. “There are blackberries in there, whole bushels and bushels of them!” Mollie called. “You could see them from the road, and there you girls passed right by them without even looking.” “Blackberries!” repeated Grace resignedly, as she felt in her pocket to see if she had any candy left. “Just listen to her speaking of blackberries when what I’m dying for is a good big steak with onions on top of it!” “Stop it,” cried Mollie indignantly, while the others felt their mouths begin to water. “The idea of mentioning steak! But here,” she broke off, seizing Grace’s hand and dragging her toward the woods, “come with me and pick berries if you value your life. Lucky we brought those tin pails along.” “But why,” protested Grace patiently, as she was dragged along, “should we want to pick berries?” “To eat,” replied Mollie, attacking a bush that was fairly black with the luscious ripe fruit. “And besides,” she added, lowering her voice to a confidential pitch, “Mrs. Irving said that if she could find some flour and baking powder in the lodge she would make us a steamed blackberry pudding for supper.” Grace stared for a moment then, without another word, set to work on the loaded bush.