one. It's beautiful."

"I almost wish we were going to stay here, Zara. But I suppose it will
be nice when we go to the farm."

Eleanor Mercer, who had been standing for a moment in the doorway, came
in then, laughing merrily. She had overheard the remark, and Bessie was
greatly distressed when she discovered it.

"Oh, Miss Eleanor!" she exclaimed. "Please, please don't think I'm
ungrateful. I want to do whatever you think is right--"

"I know that, Bessie, and I know just what you were thinking, too. Well,
you're going to have a surprise--I can promise you that. This farm isn't
a bit like the farm you know about. I guess you know too much about one
sort of farm to want ever to see another, don't you?"

"Maybe there are different sorts of farms," admitted Bessie. "I don't
like Paw Hoover's kind."

Eleanor laughed again. She was a fresh, bright-cheeked girl, not so many
years older than Bessie herself. One might guess, indeed, that she, as
Guardian of her Camp Fire, didn't much more than manage to fulfill the
requirement that Guardians, like Scoutmasters among the Boy Scouts, must
be over twenty-one years of age.

"Indeed there are different sorts of farms from that one, Bessie," she
said. "You'll see a farm where everything is done the way it should be,
and, while I think Paw Hoover's a mighty nice man, I've got an idea that
on his farm everything is done just about opposite to the proper