The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines

On One Occasion Gerry and Felipe Discovered that They were Actually Dancing Alone

A little while before Felipe had lifted their right arms and he and Gerry had danced in and out in semi-circles until they formed the petals of a flower; reaching the center they revolved slowly in a circle, until almost ceasing to move.

Mrs. Burton decided that seldom had she seen a more enchanting picture—Gerry with her delicate blonde prettiness, Felipe Morris so complete a contrast. But then a great deal may have been due to the effect of the outdoor scene and the moonlight!

Before midnight, after dancing for several hours and after their long afternoon swim, the dancers must have grown weary, for they wandered off and sat down in little groups on the sand.

This was Gerry's and Felipe's opportunity, for at once Felipe led her to a place where they were in sight of the others and yet where they could not be overheard.

The rock Felipe had chosen rose above an amethyst carpet of sea verbena where Gerry sat enthroned while he lay down on the floral carpet.

Felipe could adopt an attitude of careless grace with more assurance than the usual American youth. Indeed, he looked utterly unlike any of the other young men who were the guests of the Camp Fire girls this night.

They wore their uniforms and were bronzed and fit.

At this time the soldiers of the National Guard were beginning slowly to fill their new military camps, as they were to be the first regiments ordered to France after the regular army had crossed. The drafted men were not yet ready for service. During this memorable first summer, after the entry of the United States into the war, the lists of the drafted men were being prepared with great difficulty.

Therefore no one of the soldier guests questioned Felipe Morris' position. It was presumed that he and Merton Anderson were in the attitude of waiting for their call to the colors.

Among the small company only Gerry and Mrs. Burton and Merton Anderson were aware of Felipe's attempt to claim exemption. Naturally the matter was not one that he cared to discuss with strangers, and more especially not with young men near his own age, who had volunteered rather than wait for the drafting.

However, Felipe was at present pleasantly sure of Gerry's sympathy.

"Fine looking soldiers, our American warriors!" he began in a lazy, good-humored tone, which nevertheless held a slight suggestion of disparagement. "I suppose one ought to rejoice that there are some men among us who have the masculine passion for fighting so long as the Kaiser's Huns are still abroad in the world. But personally I don't feel I should make a success as a soldier."

Such a conversation would not have made the slightest impression upon any one of the Sunrise Hill Camp Fire girls except Gerry.

It was obvious that Felipe preferred some one else to shoulder his responsibility and do his duty. Selfishness is neither original nor unique!

But Gerry was not given to deep reflection and was already more under her companion's influence than she realized.

"When are we going to have a meeting together somewhere off to ourselves?" Felipe asked. "There are so many things I want to talk to you about; it is tantalizing to see you for only a few moments at a time now and then. Why can't you come over and stay again at the ranch? My father does nothing but read war news all day and either Shakespeare or Cervantes in the evening, so we would be virtually alone."

The prospect sounded alluring to Gerry, nevertheless she slowly shook her head.

"I should like it, of course," she answered, smiling and showing her small but very regular white teeth, "only, like a good many other pleasant things in this world, it is out of the question for me. I cannot stay at your home alone with just your father and yourself. Besides, your father would never think of inviting me, and although I should enjoy seeing you alone at some other time, I am afraid even that is impossible. Mrs. Burton would not——"

Here Felipe laughed in a teasing fashion.

"Is this the vaunted freedom of the American girl? I thought only the other evening you confided to me that you had always been forced to depend upon yourself ever since you were a little girl and that there had been no one in your life who had ever influenced your decisions! Now you speak of Mrs. Burton as if you were a tiny school girl. Let me assure you—if assurance be necessary—that I intended nothing wicked or even unconventional. I only wished you to take a walk with me some afternoon, or a sail. I have a motor boat, and there are hours when the sea is not rough. As a matter of fact, I meant to ask Mrs. Burton's permission, in case I had your consent first. Mrs. Burton strikes me as a charming person and not one who would be too strict a chaperon. Naturally, as I have spent all my life in this neighborhood, I know the attractive parts of the country."

Felipe's tone was not so much annoyed as it was patronizing, and Gerry accepted it in this spirit.

She disliked making social mistakes, and she had had so little social training and experience that she was apt to regard her mistakes as of more importance than they actually were.

Now she supposed that she had misunderstood Felipe from the beginning and that her own stupidity had been at fault. So she replied somewhat humbly:

"I am sorry. If Mrs. Burton is willing, of course I shall enjoy walking or sailing with you. But don't let me keep you away from the other girls too long tonight. Suppose we walk over and join Mrs. Burton."

As if she intended rising, Gerry made a slight movement. Her companion did not stir.

"Sit down, please, I am afraid you are angry," he returned. "I do wish I had my guitar with me; I should like to sing to you. Mrs. Burton asked me to bring it over tonight, but I had rather not sing before the others."

So Gerry stayed on and allowed Felipe to talk, while she said little in reply, only glancing now and then from the figure at her feet to the beauty of the moonlit ocean. Vaguely she wondered why she had always been convinced she did not care for the outdoor world. It was stupid never to have realized its loveliness until tonight!

But, while Gerry and Felipe were having their talk together, only a short distance away Lieutenant Geoffrey Carson and Bettina Graham were engaged in a very different character of conversation.

It chanced that Lieutenant Carson, who was a Virginian, had an uncle who had been a representative in Congress for a number of years. Having visited his uncle, Lieutenant Carson had not only heard of Bettina's distinguished father, but had met him and knew of his effort to persuade his country to take her high place among the nations in the fight for a world-wide democracy.

So, since Bettina Graham's father was her idol, she experienced none of her customary shyness in talking to the young National Guard officer. She had liked him in their former meetings, not resenting his quiet sense of humor, a contrast to her own seriousness.

"Then you are in absolute sympathy with our having entered the war, Lieutenant Carson?" Bettina inquired, adding: "I think I always have been—and yet now and then one cannot help feeling that all war must be wrong."

Before the young officer could reply, they heard some one approaching and glancing up Bettina discovered Billy Webster.

The next moment, without awaiting their invitation, Billy took a seat on the sands beside them.

Bettina was not surprised, for few persons who knew Billy intimately continued to be surprised by his unexpected actions. Indeed, they would have been surprised had he behaved otherwise. Now, although Bettina was a little annoyed at having her conversation interrupted, she made no effort to interfere with his intention.

The turning of Billy Webster from the accomplishment of his desire required a tremendous amount of energy which the result scarcely ever justified.

So far as Lieutenant Carson was concerned, because Billy looked so much younger than he actually was, he regarded him merely as a presuming small boy.

Moreover, at the beginning of their talk, certainly Billy behaved like one. First he stared at Lieutenant Carson's dress uniform, with the single bar on his collar and sleeve and then up into the officer's firm, smooth-shaven face. Finally, leaning over close to his companion, he fastened his large visionary blue eyes upon the officer's steadfast brown ones.

"Why did you do it?" Billy inquired. Then, because he was accustomed to being compelled to explain himself, he continued: "I mean why did you volunteer, why go through all the hard work and rigmarole to be appointed an officer in the army? You look as if you had an unusual lot of sense, so I cannot imagine that you do not understand there are finer things to do with one's life than killing people. I should think you could see how much more men are called upon to conquer poverty and injustice and the crime that comes of it, than they are called upon to conquer one another. Of course if you had been drafted that would have been a different matter. Most people do what other people tell them to do. That is why I believe if all the leaders of the world would preach peace, all war would end."

Instead of appearing to take the youthful pacifist seriously, Lieutenant Carson smiled. Billy was a little offensive and misguided, nevertheless there was something interesting about the boy; he had such an intense manner, such an appearance of being convinced of his own point of view. And Billy's personality suggested the thinker, not the man of action.

"Then you are under the impression we are over there in our encampment for the fun of it and in order to kill time which we might be spending in better ways?" he inquired, thinking that perhaps he might answer Bettina's anxious questionings and Billy's impertinence at the same time. "Well, as a matter of fact, our encampment is not a very attractive place up to the present. Did you think so when you made us the visit? One job we have been tackling recently is to clear away the underbrush from a good many thousands of acres of desert which have remained undisturbed from the year one until now. We killed ninety rattlesnakes as a part of the first day's work. Later on we are going to drive artillery across those wastes of sand. Does not sound like play, does it?"

"No," Billy returned patiently, wondering why people would not sometimes answer his questions directly, without first preaching long sermons which seemed to have but little bearing upon them.

"It is because I think a soldier's life is so hard and must be so distasteful to a lot of men that I wonder why you would rather give your energy to fighting than to trying to make the world happier and wiser in other ways."

Lieutenant Carson frowned. He knew the things Billy was saying were being said by a good many people the world over, who were older and wiser, or who should have been wiser, than Billy. But he also realized that these same sentiments were not easy to answer, because they had in them so much of the germ of truth, which was to blossom and flower at some future day.

Moreover, unexpectedly he experienced an impulse to help the boy to see the present world struggle in a clearer light.

"Billy," he added, "you will agree with me, won't you, that pretty nearly everybody is saying the same thing these days? We all claim that we wish the world to enjoy universal peace, that we long for greater justice and happiness and a deeper sense of brotherhood. There is only one point that divides you and me just at present. We all want peace, but some of us want it so much that we are willing to pay for it by the final last sacrifice of our youth and our blood. There are others who think it may be obtained, and apparently you are one of them, simply by sitting still and talking the whole subject over. This is pretty difficult as things are at present. So long as the devil is such a scrapper, those of us who believe in the triumph of right have got to learn to fight back harder and even more successfully than he can fight."

Billy was silent for a moment, then with an egotism which was eminently characteristic, he remarked: "Well, perhaps that is the way some people must see the thing. Do you know I have always believed that some day I am going to have a tremendous influence upon people just through talking to them."

Then, by the time Lieutenant Carson had recovered from his surprise at Billy's audacity, he had made up his mind that the hour had arrived for their return to camp.

"As You Like It"

The more Mrs. Burton dwelt upon the idea of giving a play for the recreation fund of the soldiers, the more the idea pleased her. Upon going more deeply into the subject she discovered that an effort was being made to secure funds for the building of a theater in each war camp in the United States.

To initiate the movement and to be the first contributor to the fund here in their immediate neighborhood, Mrs. Burton realized would give her great pleasure. If her fellow players were offering to act at these theaters, traveling from one to the other in a regular circuit during the coming winter, then surely the theaters should be provided!

Moreover, after having first suffered a natural objection to acting with novices, Mrs. Burton changed her point of view to the extent of considering that it might be rather charming to play with her own Camp Fire girls in a comedy fresh and sparkling as Shakespeare's "As You Like It." The play itself was in the spirit of a summer vacation, full of the outdoors and delicious improbabilities. Besides the effort would be a valuable experience for her Camp Fire girls.

Captain Burton had written, expressing not only his approval of the suggestion, but a real enthusiasm, provided Mrs. Burton felt well enough to undertake it. Also he suggested that Mrs. Burton find some professional actor in California who would play Orlando to her Rosalind. Then the contrast between her acting and that of her amateur company need not be so conspicuous. He also proposed that she secure the assistance of a professional stage manager to assist in the training of her players.

In the beginning of their discussion concerning the production of "As You Like It," Mrs. Burton had announced as insurmountable the obstacle that the cast required a greater number of men than of women characters. It appeared that the girls already had considered this fact and were prepared with a proposal.

Peggy and Bettina had talked the matter over quietly with Lieutenant Carson on the night of their dance, begging him not to speak of it if nothing came of their idea. But they were thus able to report that Lieutenant Carson believed his commanding officer would permit a few of the soldiers to act with them in "As You Like It," provided the rehearsals did not interfere with their army work.

Later, when the performance became an actual possibility, Lieutenant Carson inquired among his soldier companions until he discovered the men who had some past dramatic experience and would also be acceptable in a social way.

Besides the soldiers Mrs. Burton later on invited Felipe Morris and Merton Anderson to become members of her cast.

Merton Anderson declined. No one knew the reason for his refusal except Sally Ashton, who, as a matter of fact, had begged him not to take part. Personally she did not approve of the outdoor play and had no idea of making the effort necessary to portray the least important character. Therefore Sally did not wish her latest admirer to become involved in an interest which would separate him from her society.

Felipe Morris appeared delighted to take part, and it was his aid which Mrs. Burton desired. She was confident that he would be able to act with unusual grace and self-assurance for a novice, and at least he possessed good looks and a naturally artistic temperament.

Moreover, Mrs. Burton and Felipe's father had become good friends, so that she believed that Mr. Morris would be pleased to have Felipe drawn into an intimate association with certain of the soldiers of the National Guard, trusting that they might influence him. Personally Mrs. Burton thought the one thing necessary was to entice Felipe away from his music and his indolent dreaming into the world of real men where he would awaken to his duty.

She knew of his friendship with Gerry and of the somewhat marked interest they apparently felt in each other, but she did not take the fact seriously. Already he had asked several times that he and Gerry be allowed to spend an afternoon together and Mrs. Burton had promptly consented. No longer did she cherish the illusion that she could hide away her Camp Fire girls in even the remotest corners of the globe without their being discovered. Therefore, after her foolish alarm over Bettina and her unconventional Indian friendship, she had concluded not to be so nervous a second time, but to trust to the discretion of the girls themselves.

Among the seven Camp Fire girls Gerry was exceptionally pretty and so could not fail to receive attention. But not for a single moment did Mrs. Burton dream that there was anything more than a superficial attraction between Gerry and Felipe. Of course she considered Gerry too young, not realizing that Felipe Morris was four years her senior and that Gerry's history had made her older than most girls of her age.

Yet after the verdict was reached and the actors secured, there still remained many details to be settled, the most important being the selection of the characters for the production of the Shakespearean comedy. Then, although there was a good deal of discussion, and Mrs. Burton allowed a free expression of opinion, in each choice she remained the court of final decision.

It was she who at the beginning of the discussion settled upon Marta Clark for the character of Celia, sweet cousin to Rosalind and second only in importance. In consequence Marta, who had not expected the honor, suffered a confusion of emotions, surprise, pleasure, alarm! Mrs. Burton had not forgotten their absurd first meeting, nor Marta's shy confession of an ambition to follow in her footsteps. If she had ability—and it was more than probable since her brother had lately written a clever play showing a dramatic gift in the family—Mrs. Burton had every intention of aiding Marta in her desire when the right moment arrived. This would be but a slight return in memory of the friend who so generously had helped her in the old days.

Moreover, Mrs. Burton felt that she and Marta must learn to know each other better. To play beside her as Celia, to be with each other constantly at rehearsals would not only afford her the chance to test Marta's talent, but would give them an opportunity to become better friends.

Marta possessed vivacity, a love of poetry and of nature; these things Mrs. Burton had found out. Also her face depended upon the passing mood for its charm, a superior gift to beauty in an emotional actress.

Gerry Williams and Peggy were to impersonate Phebe, a shepherdess, and Audrey, a country wench, after a good-natured argument in which Peggy insisted upon this division of honors because of Gerry's superior prettiness.

Touchstone, the gay clown in "As You Like It," sings several of the most charming ballads in all Shakespeare. Because of his beautiful voice and his grace as a dancer Mrs. Burton begged Felipe Morris to play Touchstone, and he appeared pleased to accept.

Lieutenant Carson agreed to portray Jaques, whose soliloquy, "All the world's a stage," is one of the greatest speeches in English literature.

Dan Webster determined upon the character of Adam, servant to Orlando, while Billy Webster together with Sally Ashton refused to show the slightest interest in the approaching performance.

The other members of the cast were the officers and soldiers from the nearby cantonment. They expressed a great deal of enthusiasm over the relief the rehearsals afforded from the hard physical labor of these early days of their army training. Moreover, they would not even attempt to express their pleasure in associating so informally with a number of agreeable girls.

Bettina, Alice and Vera Lagerloff were to be ladies-in-waiting at the court of the Duke.

If Sally Ashton's refusal to play any part was due to her inherent indolence, Billy's lack of interest was ascribable to the wholly opposite cause.

Now and then for a passing moment when she had time to think of her always erratic nephew, Mrs. Burton wished that Billy had been yielding to his usual slothfulness. But recently he had awakened to an amazing energy and was working as he never had worked in his life.

After his brief conversation with Lieutenant Carson, for no reason which he chose to explain, Billy proceeded to find out whatever was possible in regard to the details of the new war camps. The monthly magazines and newspapers to which his aunt, or any one else at Sunrise camp subscribed, he searched diligently for all war information. Then he would disappear on long walks, announcing on his return that he had been over in the direction of the new National Guard cantonment, following the railroad tracks which had recently been laid from the city.

Finally he imparted the surprising information that he had secured work as a day laborer at the war camp, Mr. Jefferson Simpson having vouched for him. Moreover, Billy declared that he had given his aunt's name as a security for his trustworthiness and that Captain Mason had remembered his original visit to camp with Mrs. Burton's party.

Of Billy's value as a day laborer his family and friends felt extremely uncertain. But Billy explained that he was only expected to stand around and to hand the carpenters who were at work the tools they happened to need at the moment. He also carried buckets of water back and forth and in short did whatever chores he was ordered to do.

Mrs. Webster and Peggy were touched by Billy's unexpected display of patriotism, knowing how abhorrent labor of this kind had always been to him. Never, except under absolute coercion, had Billy ever performed the slightest manual work upon their own farm!

Mrs. Burton, Dan Webster and even the usually trustful Vera were not so enthusiastic over Billy's latest departure. Without confessing the fact, they suffered vague discomfort.

What possible plan had Billy in mind? If one only could believe he had chosen this method of "doing his bit!" But this would have been a commonplace attitude, and Billy was never commonplace.

There were moments when Mrs. Burton wondered if Billy were intent upon preaching his childish ideas upon pacifism and had chosen the one place where they would be most troublesome and dangerous! However, she was too deeply absorbed in making a success of the play which she and the Camp Fire girls had undertaken to allow much time to the consideration of her nephew.

The Camp Fire girls were learning to know their guardian in a new light. Under ordinary circumstances she was extremely lenient and more than willing to allow them to do as they liked.

But now they were to see her not in a holiday mood, but as an artist at work at her task. Since they had insisted upon the production of "As You Like It," the penalty rested upon them. Therefore she would suffer no idleness and accept no excuses for delay or carelessness.

At one of the rehearsals, Peggy having appeared uncertain of her lines, was publicly lectured and sent back to her tent with the suggestion that if she were unwilling to do her duty, some one else had best take her place.

Human Psychology

Billy Webster, who had difficulty in living peacefully and happily with the people in his own walk of life, possessed a curious genius for making himself popular with the so-called "working classes."

At first the workmen at the new National Guard camp paid no especial attention to the delicate looking boy who suddenly appeared among them. But in a short time Billy proved unexpectedly useful.

For one thing he made no effort to talk. He merely stood about in places where he thought he might be of service, doing what he was told and asking no questions. Several times he displayed an intelligent initiative. And when each man is trying to do the work of two or three, every small saving of unnecessary effort through some one else counts.

At the present time there were fifteen hundred laborers employed on the cantonment. They were building barracks and small wooden bungalows and large store-houses for provisions and supplies from the ordnance and quartermaster departments. Every hour or so freight had to be unloaded from cars, so that they might be removed from the tracks and others take their place.

The soldiers were more often employed in the construction of roads and the clearing away of a century's growth of underbrush.

There was little in the camp that escaped Billy's quiet observation. The very fact that he did not talk, when ordinarily he had a passion as well as a gift for conversation was in itself a suspicious circumstance.

For once in his life Billy was finding it more worth while to listen and receive information rather than to impart his own ideas.

At first the great drawback was that the laborers did not have time, or else they did not feel the inclination to talk at all seriously. They would simply exchange jokes with one another, or sing snatches of popular songs.

The laborers belonged to a company under bond to the government that there would be no traitors employed at the war camps. Therefore if the men held any views connected with the war, they gave no expression to them. Moreover, the officers and soldiers were constantly in and out among the men at all hours. Nevertheless, Billy became more and more convinced that if a man were willing to sacrifice his own life in case he were discovered, it was impossible even with the strictest regulations to avoid the peril of a spy.

One day at lunch time the boy was sitting alone in the shadow made by a pile of lumber, which afforded a little relief from the heat of the noon sun, when two of his fellow laborers came and sat down only a few feet away. They saw him, of course, but seemed not to resent his presence; so, after smiling with the innocent, boyish expression peculiar to him, Billy continued eating. He brought his lunch with him every day in a basket as the other laborers did.

One of the two men, whom he thought a Swede, was rather an especial friend, although the only fashion in which they so far had expressed their friendliness was by smiling whenever they met.

He was a dull, good-natured fellow, blond and mild of manner. "Seems a pity to have to bring all these boys away from their homes and their mothers and sweethearts to plant them down in this desert in the heat of summer," he remarked to his companion, after he had bitten off a large hunk of sour bread and was slowly chewing on it like a cud. Finally, taking out his soiled handkerchief, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"I have not been in the West very long, and it is sure enough God's country?" the blond workman went on. "But what a lot of waste land waiting for men to water and then plough and sow it! I thought all this desert land was soon to be redeemed and now all the young men have to go away from their own country into another land to fight. Sometimes it's a hard thing for a dull, common man to understand the good of war."

Billy stopped eating and slid over a few feet nearer. His blue eyes were beginning to shine.

"Wouldn't it be great if each man who has pledged his life to serve his country would do some deed which would save life instead of taking it?" he demanded. Then Billy paused and grew hot and cold by turns. He was not very sure of what he was trying to argue except in a vague fashion, and there was something about his last remark which held a suggestion of treason. He did not intend being disloyal. It was only that his preconceived ideas of right and wrong had been greatly troubled by the present war, and Billy was not willing to accept conditions as he found them, possessing the spirit which must solve its own problems.

He reddened as he found his new acquaintances staring at him suspiciously.

"Then you think peace brings the great mass of the people better fortune than war?" asked the other man, who had been quiet until now. He was a little, dark man, probably of Italian origin.

Billy hesitated. "I don't know," he answered, "I only believe peace should make men wiser and kinder to each other. But recently everything has gotten so dreadfully mixed in my mind, I can't be sure of anything. Perhaps I am mistaken."

"War has to be, young man," Billy's mild-mannered friend announced, nodding his head.

"Yes, that is what everybody says," the boy agreed.

Then the somewhat pointless conversation was obliged to end, as the hour for lunch had passed.

Among the experiences which Billy Webster was particularly enjoying at this time were his long walks back and forth from the place where he was spending his nights to the scene of his daily labors.

For, literally, he only spent his nights at the Sunrise camp. He arrived at home after the others had finished dinner, and rose and went away each morning just after daylight. But instead of the long, fatiguing walks, added to the unusual work of the war camp, injuring Billy's health—never had he appeared so strong and well.

Not that any one, aside from his mother, was paying particular attention to Billy's vagaries. Even Vera Lagerloff, for the first time in their long friendship, temporarily was neglecting Billy's welfare in her enthusiasm over the approaching production of "As You Like It."

However, Billy rejoiced in his new freedom.

He took pleasure in slipping out of his tent in the early morning, leaving Dan still asleep. Then he would prepare his own breakfast of coffee, fruit and eggs which were always left where he could readily find them. Afterwards, with his basket of lunch that his mother made ready the night before, Billy would move quietly off.

Even the dawns in this southwestern world were unlike the dawns Billy remembered in his own New Hampshire hills. Not that he would have claimed the New Hampshire hills as his possession because of a mere accident of birth. Billy cared infinitely more for the softness, the warmth and strangeness of this new country and climate than he had ever cared for the austerity of New England. It was awakening in him new strength and new purposes which so far he scarcely understood.

The way the dawn broke here in the western coast Billy particularly loved; it was so serene. There was not the drear, melancholy darkness and then the swift coming of light. But first a pearl-gray mist covered the sky, afterwards lavender and rose shone behind it and finally a pure gold, with the ocean as a mirror of the sky.

A part of the trip he could make by street car, nevertheless this left many miles to be traveled at either end of the line.

However, as Billy wished to think things out for himself, these walks afforded a wonderful opportunity. The difficulty of his life had always been due to his refusal to accept any judgment except his own. He honestly could not understand why his family even thought they had the right to interfere with him. Yet now he was up against the great fact of human discipline, the law which so often forces us to submit to a higher power.

The boys at the National Guard camp were not much older than himself, at least some of them were not. Nevertheless they were engaged upon tasks which he knew must be hard and distasteful and were prepared to face far worse things later on. Some of them had thought the question over for a long time, nearly three years in fact, until they were prepared to fight the enemy, body and soul, to a finish. Others of the soldiers were not given to thinking, but were obeying a good fighting instinct. All of them, however, were acknowledging an authority higher than their own and obeying a higher will.

Often Billy wondered how he should feel if the war lasted long enough to make the same demand upon him? Would he give up his belief in peace and the unrighteousness of war to serve as a common soldier in the ranks? And even if he did do this, was it in him to make a good soldier, to sacrifice himself for a common cause? Sometimes Billy prayed to be delivered from the test.

Yet whatever his own mental problems, there was one big fact of which Billy became daily more assured and that was his tremendous personal admiration for the new National Guard soldiers. Certainly theirs was the road of heroism and self-sacrifice, while the pacifists, even if right in principle, were skulking behind the protection the soldiers gave to them.

There were moments when Billy became a little scornful of the pacifists, himself included, who preferred the easiest way.

Ordinarily the boy took his long tramps to and from camp alone, but on the day after his brief conversation with the two workmen, the men joined him at the close of the day, walking for a short distance one on either side. Billy felt absurdly proud, as if the men at last regarded him as one of them. They even spoke of labor unions in his presence and Billy was glad to announce that he approved of unions.

Afterwards, perhaps four or five days later, Billy did not return to the Sunrise camp, even at the comparatively late hour which had become his habit.

Mrs. Webster suffered a good deal of uneasiness. Billy explained that he had been compelled to go into the nearest town on important business, so she was not to worry. One could scarcely say beforehand what demands war work might make upon one's time and strength.

Mrs. Webster steeled herself to bear the strain, even when Billy's new passion for helping to win the war kept him away from the Sunrise camp until nearly midnight for several nights in succession.

Just at this time she was extremely busy assisting with the preparation of the costumes for the Sunrise Camp Fire production of "As You Like It." In spite of the fact that Mrs. Burton had sent east for several trunks of costumes, there were many alterations to be made, and every member of the entire cast, maid and man, asked of Mrs. Webster either advice or aid, or both.

No matter how great her weariness, Mrs. Webster always remained awake until her son's return, in order that she might know he was well and have him eat a carefully saved-over dinner.

Gently Billy endeavored to persuade his mother to give up this plan, insisting that he always had food in town. But although Mrs. Webster made no effort to interfere with his actions, on this one point she was adamant. She must be sure that her son was safely at camp in order to be able to sleep.

Realizing this to be true, for several nights Billy returned to camp at the usual time. Then a night arrived when he reached home even later than before.

It chanced that on this night, without Billy's being aware of the fact, Mrs. Burton and her cast had been going through a dress rehearsal of their play.

When Billy finally reached camp, the Sunrise Hill tents were dark and still.

Yet to the left a camp fire was burning and a woman's figure was seated near it.

A pang of remorse stirred Billy, in spite of his own weariness.

Coming forward with his arms outstretched, instead of his mother, he discovered Vera Lagerloff.

"Goodness, Vera, I never saw you look so wonderful!" Billy exclaimed, bowing with the air of a courtier and a grace which he knew well how to assume.

For Vera was wearing a court costume, a skirt of a deep rose-colored satin and a polonaise and basque of white with a design of roses.

Her dark hair was piled high on her head and her cheeks were slightly rouged, since every preparation for the actual stage performance had been made.

Billy had never seen Vera so handsome, nor dreamed it possible that she could ever look as she did tonight. But then Billy had thought little of Vera's appearance, or of that of any other girl. He had simply cared for her with a curious boyish selfishness and affection. Unconsciously he always planned his future with Vera beside him to hear of his trials and conquests, but had never thought of how this could be managed.

Yet tonight Vera paid no attention to his unusual flattery.

Her expression suggested annoyance and reproach.

"Wait here, Billy, I'll find you something to eat. I made your mother go to bed and she and Mrs. Burton agreed that I might wait for you."

But Billy would not let her go. "I'm not hungry, Vera. Besides you look like a queen, not a kitchen maid. What's up? Fire away."

"That is what I wish to have you tell me," Vera returned, with the deep and abiding gentleness, which usually overcame Billy's obstinacy where other people and other methods failed.

He laughed. "I thought as much. Nothing doing, Vera. I am not going to tell anybody anything. Yes, I know I promised not to get into mischief again, after that last escapade of mine. But what did it amount to, going to jail for a little while, it was merely an interesting experience!"

Billy took Vera's hand in his own almost equally slender one, since Vera's was the hand of a peasant ancestry and Billy's the opposite.

"See here, dear, I am not sorry to have you and mother and Tante begin worrying about me, fearing I am going to do something foolish. You never seem to think me capable of anything else. But this time, between you and me, Vera, if I could tell you what is interesting me right now—and I confess it is not only my work at the war camp, although it has a close connection—well, I don't believe you would consider me foolish."

"Then, why won't you tell me what is interesting you, Billy? You know I don't always think ideas are foolish, but oftentimes I don't think your judgment wise. Besides, I am afraid something may happen to you!"

Billy shook his head, still holding her hand with boyish affection.

"These are war times, Vera. You and I used to disagree on the subject—one of the first questions we have ever seriously disagreed upon since we were little children. Anyhow, what I am interested in at present has something to do with the war. I cannot tell you details, as I must not confide in any one just now. Only promise me you'll see that mother does not worry and that neither she nor Tante makes a scene to try to force me into giving up my present work. I should simply go on with it anyhow, Vera."

Vera sighed. The problem of Billy Webster had always been too much for other people. Was he in the future to become a problem too big for her?

The Night of the Play

During the weeks of rehearsal before the performance of "As You Like It," the Camp Fire girls and the young officers and soldiers from the National Guard camp had delightful opportunities for developing new friendships.

When the emotion which existed between Felipe Morris and Gerry Williams became more than an ordinary friendship, the chances for exchanging confidences were more frequent than one would readily guess.

Felipe possessed a talent for pursuing the ends he desired in a quiet, unostentatious fashion. There were moments when merely passing by Gerry with other people near, he would whisper a few words which only she could hear. Then, when neither of them expected to be called for their share in a rehearsal, they used to slip away together to some secluded place for more intimate conversations.

The final rehearsals took place at the open-air theater near one of the most fashionable seaside resorts in southern California, and Felipe was familiar with the coast and the surrounding country.

There were no long, dull waits for them between the moments when they were actually upon the stage, no sense of fatigue and boredom of which the other amateur players occasionally complained.

Gerry appeared to be happy to listen and Felipe to talk to her indefinitely.

Of course the other actors were aware of Gerry's and Felipe's interest in each other and tried teasing them now and then, but since neither denied the fact, the effort lost its piquancy.

Nor were Mrs. Burton and Mrs. Webster entirely blind, although they did not accept the situation seriously. It was ridiculous to presume that every friendship between a girl and a man must be regarded with solemnity. Nevertheless it is more than possible that if Mrs. Burton had not been so absorbed in the coming performance she would have noticed some tell-tale circumstances. Her extreme preoccupation was her chief excuse.

She did mention to her sister several times that she never had seen Gerry look so pretty or appear as happy as she had for the past few weeks.

"Why, the child is like a field of wild flowers; her hair is the color of buttercups, her eyes are cornflowers and her cheeks——"

But here Mrs. Burton's flow of imagery had been stopped by Mrs. Webster's protest.

"Please don't be so absurd, Polly. You know conversation of that character merely strikes me as foolish." So Mrs. Burton had laughed and the subject of Gerry was dismissed.

Gerry was becoming aware of a change in her own life, not in her mere appearance, but in a way far deeper. There were moments when she even hoped her own drab, lonely existence was past forever and that a life as radiant as these past weeks would endure. She tried not to hope too much from Felipe's manner and the kind things he said to her now and then. Of course she was too young for him to think of seriously. Nevertheless Gerry could not refrain from occasionally seeing a happy image of herself at the old ranch with Felipe and his father!

In her dream the old house was not in its present dilapidated condition, but had been made beautiful and luxurious following the plans which Felipe had more than once confided to her.

For always he talked of beautifying his old home and of his music and travel and of other delightful things, but never of war, or self-sacrifice, or hard work.

Felipe had not been informed whether his claim for exemption from war service had been accepted, and yet he seemed to regard the matter as settled.

So Gerry also forgot what was going on in the world about them, forgot what was being required of other young men, even though she had daily talks with the soldiers.

But at last the night for the public performance of "As You Like It" arrived.

The Camp Fire girls had not erred in their prediction that their guardian's reputation was sufficient to insure them a large audience. Mrs. Burton had secured the aid of a well-known California actor, Arthur Whitney, to play Orlando to her Rosalind. For the past two weeks he had been living in one of the hotels near the open-air theater, where he had many friends.

In the neighboring cities and towns the newspapers had devoted columns of unpaid advertising to notices of the play and the opportunity it afforded for seeing the famous American actress. Added to this was the fact that the proceeds from the performance were to be devoted to the recreation fund for the boys in the southern California cantonment.

Long before the night of the performance, every ticket of admission to the theater had been sold, and as much standing room as possible.

Fronting the entrance to the open-air theater stood three or four palm trees so trimmed as to give the effect of a green canopy.

Inside the theater were rows of rustic benches and in the foreground the open-air stage surrounded by a background of shrubs. Around the enclosure was a thick hedge.

Once inside the little theater and one was in so unique a setting, it was as if one were shut away in an enchanted world.

No more charming place could have been discovered for the performance of Shakespeare's comedy. The atmosphere and the scenery of the "Forest of Arden" were already secure.

A thrill of anticipation ran through the audience with the tinkling of a number of bells to announce the opening of the play.

Then the actors entered from behind a screen of shrubs to the left of the stage. The first conversation is between Orlando and old Adam.

The real interest of the audience waited, of course, upon the appearance of the star, and soon after Rosalind and Celia appeared on the lawn before the Duke's palace.

Mrs. Burton had played the character of Rosalind many times; the courage and gaiety of one of the most charming of all Shakespeare's heroines were essentially her own characteristics.

Tonight, on making her entrance, she had to pause for a moment to acknowledge the storm of applause. The first speech was Marta's, and Mrs. Burton was glad of the respite, remembering her own tragic first appearance and wondering if Marta could be suffering half so much.

Several times before the actual performance, she had been afraid that her solicitude for her amateur company would seriously interfere with her own acting.

Marta managed her first speech as Celia bravely. If one recalls her line, it is a brief one:

"I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry."

Then Rosalind takes the center of the stage and while she is there, but few eyes are turned away from her. All the grace and charm of the one-time Polly O'Neill returned to the great actress in the hours when she was playing, and now added to her natural gifts were the long years of experience and training.

Tonight Mrs. Burton's voice charmed her audience with its peculiar magic, her every movement kept one fascinated.

Marta Clark too scored a distinct success as Celia. She had been awkward and self-conscious at rehearsals and no one had believed in her. But whether she needed the spur of the actual production, or had learned more than any one realized from playing with Mrs. Burton, certainly she showed unusual ease and pliancy for an amateur actress. More than once during the performance Mrs. Burton managed to whisper her congratulations, stirring Marta to fresh efforts.

Gerry did not do a great deal of acting, but as Phebe she was such a ravishingly pretty shepherdess that one thought of little else. Peggy's character study of Audrey, the country wench, showed such an amusing combination of stupidity and common sense that in spite of the unimportance of the part, she won a real triumph.

Lieutenant Carson at least presented a fine appearance as the melancholy Jaques.

The one failure among the company of youthful artists was Felipe Morris, upon whose natural ability Mrs. Burton and all the other players had depended.

It was surprising, for during all the rehearsals Felipe had always acted so agreeably that even the stage manager had only words of praise for him.

Yet the Touchstone who danced gracefully out before the footlights on the occasion of the real performance was a different Touchstone.

By a kind of natural instinct Mrs. Burton instantly recognized the fact. Even through his make-up and his motley costume of stripes and caps and bells, one could discern that Felipe's thoughts were not concentrated upon his performance.

Touchstone spoke his lines with the proper combination of drollery and impertinence, yet there was no suggestion of real wit or merriment. The very jangling of his bells was depressing.

Once in a hurried moment behind the scenes Mrs. Burton managed to inquire: "Is there anything the matter, Felipe? Are you not well?"

Felipe only laughed and shook his head. "What should be the matter? Am I falling down on my part? I shall try and brace up in the next act."

If Touchstone was a failure in his acting, Felipe sang as never before. It was not Gerry alone, listening behind the scenes, who was completely fascinated.

One of Touchstone's ballads is of the eternal romance of love and spring time. Felipe's voice held a freshness, a clear sweetness that went straight to the hearts of his audience.