until one yellow braid now dangled over her pink ear.

Mollie O'Neill's cheeks were also flushed, but she sat perfectly still,
keeping her hands clasped tight together in a fashion she had when
desiring a thing greatly and not feeling sure she would receive it.

Eleanor Meade had even forgiven Betty for dragging her away from her
unfinished painting of the May, sky (a painting which Meg and Betty had
assured her resembled soap suds), so enthralled had she become with the
summer plan. If her parents could be persuaded to allow her to stay in
camp with the girls during the summer, why then surely she need not be
bothered with having to take exercise and help with the housework, as
her mother insisted, she could simply give up all her time to her
drawing and painting. You see Eleanor, like a good many other girls,
did not at once grasp the meaning of the Camp Fire idea.

Apparently only one person in Mrs. Ashton's drawing-room up to this time
seemed to have gotten nothing at all out of Miss McMurtry's explanations
and the girls' discussion of a Camp Fire club. But then how could she,
for Sylvia Wharton apparently had not listened and certainly had never
taken her eyes from Polly's face? She appeared a stupid child, short
and stout and, although fourteen, hardly seemed more than twelve. Her
clothes were expensive but always inappropriate, indeed they were far
too handsome for such a plain little girl. However, they were in accord
with her father's taste, and although Mr. Wharton was now a wealthy man,
he had begun life as a stone-cutter and could hardly be expected to know
much about the proper way to dress a small, motherless daughter.

Several times in the past half hour Polly had almost yielded to the
inclination to implore Sylvia to take her eyes off her, for the little