“I have an Indian book at home,” said Blake Lathrop quietly, speaking to all, but looking rather more intently at Natalie. “I think it has a lot of names such as ‘bluebird’ in it. If you girls want to pick out titles for yourselves I’ll bring it over.” “Oh, will you, really?” cried Mabel. “I want an Indian name, too, if the rest are going to have them.” “Say, what is this Camp Fire Girls’ racket, anyhow?” asked Phil. “I’ve heard you talking about it, Mabel, but I thought it was one of the Academy societies.” “It’s nothing of the sort,” declared Alice, while Natalie went to the piano and softly played a weird Indian song, in a haunting minor key. “Well, what is it?” asked Jack, finishing the last of his crackers and cheese, and gallantly offering Alice what was left of the ginger ale. “No, thank you,” interposed his sister. “I’m going to ask Nellie to make us some tea. We’re all shivering.” “The Camp Fire Girls is an organization something like the Boy Scouts,” went on Alice. “I used to belong,” remarked Blake, as he walked over ostensibly to look at the picture on the wall—the said picture being very close to the piano at which Natalie was softly playing. “Well, the Camp Fire Girls are like the Scouts,” continued Alice, “only different. It isn’t so military. The camp fire is our symbol, and our seven laws are—‘seek beauty’——” “None of _you_ have to!” declared Jack gallantly, bowing with his hand on his heart. “Thank you!” chorused the trio, Marie being out in the kitchen interviewing the maid. “Go on, Alice,” urged Natalie. “‘Seek beauty,’” resumed the girl, “‘give service—pursue knowledge—be trustworthy—hold on to health—glorify work—be happy.’ There, I think I’ve said them right.” “You have,” murmured Mabel. “Very nice,” asserted Phil. “And there are three degrees,” proceeded Alice. “We have just joined, so we are humble wood-gatherers, may it please your gracious highnesses,” and she dropped a pretty courtesy to the boys. “After three months’ service as such, we may become fire-makers, and that’s a lot harder. And then the next is torch-bearer, which is harder still. But we’re not worrying about that. See our rings—aren’t they dears?” and she held out her hand which Jack promptly captured, to the discomfiture of Phil, who had also made an attempt at the slim fingers. Then from the piano, which had suddenly ceased its melody there came a voice: “No, Blake, you mustn’t take off my ring—really. Oh, stop—there, you’ve dropped it!” “Shame on you Blake!” mocked Phil, “to treat a poor girl so. Let me see your ring, Marie,” he went on, as the pretty hostess came into the room again. “I’m too busy,” she called to him. “You may help me get out the cups and saucers if you will, though,” she added. “Let me be a wood-gatherer,” pleaded Jack. “Me for the fire-maker!” declared Blake. “You’ve got enough to do right there,” mocked Jack. “We will call you the Greek chorus.”