As for the second time she approached Slabtown, her heart began to beat a little faster, but the newborn courage did not fail her now. She found herself whistling a gay tune and laughed. Whistling to keep her courage up? Was that what she was doing? Never mind--the courage _was_ up. The women still sat on their doorsteps or stared from their windows, but this time the children did not swarm around her. They stood by the roadside and stared, but none called after her or followed her. She did not realise how great was the difference between the girl who now walked by with shining eyes and lifted head, and the white-faced trembling little creature with terror writ large in every line of her face and figure that had scurried by earlier in the day. But the children realised it. Instinctively now they knew her unafraid, and they did not venture to badger her. She even smiled and waved her hand to them as she went by, and at that a youngster of a dozen years suddenly broke out, "Three cheers fer the girl--now, fellers!" And with the echo of the shrill response ringing in her ears, Myra passed on, proud and happy as never before in her life. All the rest of the way she went with the new happy consciousness making music in her heart--the consciousness of victory won. The last mile or two her feet dragged, but it was from weariness and lack of food. As she drew near the camp her steps quickened, her head went up again, and her eyes began to shine; but when she came to the white tents, she stood looking about in blank amazement. There was not a girl anywhere in sight; even the cook was missing. Myra stood for a moment wondering where they had all gone; then she walked slowly across the camp to a hammock swung behind a clump of low-growing pines. Dropping into the hammock, she tucked a cushion under her head and, with a long sigh of delicious content and restfulness her eyes closed and in two minutes she was sound asleep--so sound asleep that when, an hour later, the girls came straggling back with pails and baskets full of big luscious berries, the gay cries and laughter and chatter of many voices did not arouse her. The girls trooped over to the kitchen and delivered up their spoil to the cook. "Now, Katie," cried one, "you must make us some blueberry flapjacks for supper--lots and lots of 'em, too!" "And blueberry gingerbread," added another. "And pies--fat juicy pies," called a third. "_And_ rolypoly--blueberry rolypoly!" shouted yet another. The cook, her arms on her hips, stood laughing into the sun-browned young faces before her. "Sure ye're not askin' me to make all them things fer ye _to-night_!" she protested gaily. "We-ell, not all maybe. We can wait till to-morrow for some of them. But heaps and heaps of flapjacks, Katie dear, if you love us, and you know you do," coaxed Louise Johnson.