IN CAMP Several miles from Lloydsboro Valley, where a rapid brook runs by the ruins of an old paper-mill, a roaring waterfall foams and splashes.

Even in the long droughts of midsummer it is green and cool there, for the spray, breaking on the slippery stones, freshens the ferns on the bank, and turns its moss to the vivid hue of an emerald.

Near by, in an open pasture, sloping down from a circle of wooded hills, lies an ideal spot for a small camp.
It was here that Mrs.Walton and Miss Allison came one warm afternoon, the Monday following the entertainment, with a wagonette full of children.
Ranald, Malcolm, Keith, and Rob Moore had ridden over earlier in the day to superintend the coloured men who dug the trenches and pitched the tents.

By the time the wagonette arrived, fuel enough to last a week was piled near the stones where the camp-fire was laid, and everything was in readiness for the gay party.

Flags floated from the tent poles, and Dinah, the young coloured woman who was to be the cook, came up from the spring, balancing a pail of water on her head, smiling broadly.
As the boys and girls swarmed out and scurried away in every direction like a horde of busy ants, Mrs.Walton turned to her sister with a laugh.
"Did we lose any of them on the way, Allison?
We'd better count noses." "No, we are all here: eight girls, four boys, the four already on the field, Dinah and her baby, and ourselves, twenty in all." "Twenty-one, counting Hero," corrected Mrs.Walton, as the great St.
Bernard went leaping after Lloyd, sniffing at the tents, and barking occasionally to express his interest in the frolic.