written with pencil on a small piece of paper torn from the margin
of a newspaper, and contained the words, "Here yit."

"So you've got company," said old John, with a smile. "That's a
queer gal of yourn. She says I mustn't tell 'em you're here. As
if I'd tell 'em!"

We knew well enough that old John was not at all likely to do
anything that would cut off the nice little revenue he was making
out of our camp, and so we felt no concern on that score.

But we were very anxious for further news, and we told old John to
go to the house about ten o'clock and ask Pomona to send us another
note.

We waited, in a very disturbed condition of mind, until nearly
eleven o'clock, when old John came with a verbal message from
Pomona:

"She says she's a-comin' herself as soon as she can get a chance to
slip off."

This was not pleasant news. It filled our minds with a confused
mass of probabilities, and it made us feel mean. How contemptible
it seemed to be a party to this concealment and in league with a
servant-girl who has to "slip off!"

Before long, Pomona appeared, quite out of breath.

"In all my life," said she, "I never see people like them two. I