vehemently, her fine eyes flashing. "If girls can't win honors fairly
they ought to go without them."

This random conversation upon one and another of the phases of camp
life, illustrating as it did Mary's rigid code of honor, was destined to
recur many times to Agony in the weeks that followed, with a poignant
force that etched every one of Mary's speeches ineradicably upon her
brain. Just now it was nothing more to her than small talk to which she
replied in kind.

They stopped after a bit to drink from a clear spring that bubbled up in
the path, and sat down to rest awhile under a huge tree. Mary leaned her
head back against the trunk and drawing a small book from her sweater
pocket she opened it upon her knee.

"What is the book?" asked Agony.

"_The Desert Garden_, by Edwin Langham," replied Mary.

"Oh, do you know _The Desert Garden_?" cried Agony in delighted wonder.
"I've actually lived on that book for the last two years. I'm wild about
Edwin Langham. I've read every word he's ever written. Have you read
_The Silent Years_?"

Mary nodded.

"_The Lost Chord_? I think that's the most wonderful book I've ever
read, that and _The Desert Garden._ If I could ever see and speak to
Edwin Langham I should die from happiness. I've never felt that way
about any other author. When I read his books I feel reverent somehow,