The girls at the Grange had fashions in books, and at present they were all raving over the works of Gene Stratton Porter. Even Raymonde, not generally much of a reader, had succ.u.mbed to the charms of _Freckles_ and _A Girl of the Limberlost_. The accounts of the American swamp forest fascinated her. It was a veritable "call of the wild."

"I'd give anything--just anything--to get into such a place!" she confided to Fauvette. "I'd chance even the snakes and mosquitoes. Just think of the trees and the flowers and the birds and the b.u.t.terflies!

Why don't we have things like that in England?"

"I expect we do, only one never gets to see them. There's a wood over there on the hill that looks absolutely top-hole if one could go into it. Hermie said the other day that the b.u.mble Bee had buzzed out something about taking us all for a picnic there some day. It would be rather precious."

Raymonde shook her head reflectively.

"Picnics are all very well in their way, but when you turn about thirty people together into a wood, I fancy the birds and b.u.t.terflies will give us a wide berth. Freckles found his specimens when he was alone. You can't go naturalizing in a crowd! Look here! Suppose you and I go and explore. I'll be the Bird Woman, and you can be the Swamp Angel."

"Oh, what a blossomy idea! But what about Gibbie? Can we dodge her?"

"We'll wait till she's shut herself up in her attic, and then we'll scoot. Between tea and prep.'s the best time, especially now prep.'s been put later."

"You really have the most chubby inspirations, Ray," burbled Fauvette.

"You're an absolute mascot!"

The idea of posing as the Swamp Angel appealed to Fauvette. She was conscious that she looked the part. She fingered her fluffy flaxen curls caressingly, and resolved to wear a blue cotton dress for the next day or two, in case there was a chance of the expedition. In imagination she was already photographing rare birds and shooting villains with revolvers, and looking her best through it all.

"I wish I knew how to mix iced drinks," she sighed regretfully. "One can't get even the ice over here, not to speak of the bits of cherry and lemon and grape and pineapple that the Angel used for Freckles.

Girls in America have a far better time than we have."

"Cheero! We'll get a little fun, you'll see, if we can only circ.u.mvent the Wasp."

It was not a remarkably easy matter to leave the premises un.o.bserved.

Monitresses had a tiresome habit of hanging about in places where they were not wanted; Mademoiselle made herself far too conspicuous, and Miss Gibbs seemed everywhere. The chums decided that a too great attention to duty can degenerate into a fault.

"It's what Miss Beasley said in the Scripture lesson," declared Raymonde. "Economy over-done turns into parsimony, liberality into extravagance, self-respect into pride. Gibbie's over-stepping the mark, and letting responsibility run to fussiness."

It is hardly possible to tackle a mistress and convince her of her faults, so Miss Gibbs's pharisaical tendencies went unchecked.

Evidently the only possible method was to dodge her. Whether her suspicions were aroused it is impossible to say, but for several days she neglected her attic sanctum and pervaded the garden during recreation hours.

Raymonde and Fauvette lay low, and toiled with an amazing spurt of industry at osier-weaving.

"You've each nearly finished a basket," said Miss Gibbs approvingly.

"Yes, if we go on working hard this afternoon I think we shall finish them," replied Raymonde craftily.

"It's nice to have a thing done. I'm glad you've taken to such a sensible employment," commented Miss Gibbs.

"We like to have our fingers occupied, and then our minds haven't time to wander," said Raymonde, quoting so shamelessly from Miss Beasley that Fauvette kicked her surrept.i.tiously in alarm.

Miss Gibbs regarded her for a moment with suspicion, but her eyes were bent demurely over her basket, and her expression was innocence personified.

"It's as well you have something to do under cover, for I think it's going to rain," observed the mistress as she turned to leave the barn.

The girls watched her cross the courtyard and enter the house; then Fauvette, scooting in by the back way, had the further satisfaction of seeing the tail of her skirt whisking up the attic stairs. She ran back to report to Raymonde.

"Gibbie's safe in her sanctum. She thinks we're happily employed here for the next hour. Let's bolt for the Limberlost! There's n.o.body in the courtyard."

"Right-o!" echoed Raymonde. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime."

They did not wait to fetch hats, but, strolling down the flagged path as if for exercise, reached the great gate. Then, glancing cautiously round to see that the coast was absolutely clear, they unlatched the little postern door, slipped through, and shut it after them. A moment later they were running at top speed down the road that led to the wood. It was not a very great distance away, and they had often pa.s.sed near it in their walks. To scramble over the palings and enter its cool, mysterious shade had been their dream. They were resolved now to make it a reality.

They had been prepared for something delightful, but not for the little terrestrial paradise that spread itself at the farther side of the fence. The wood had been thinned comparatively recently, so that it admitted an unusual amount of light and air. The trees, just bursting into the tender green of early May, spread delicate lacy boughs overhead, like tender fingers held out to guard the treasures underneath. The ground below, still moist and boggy from the spring rains, was clothed with a carpet of dog violets, growing in such profusion that they seemed to stretch in a vista of palest mauve into the distance. At close intervals among these grew glorious clumps of golden cowslips and purple meadow orchis, taller and finer by far than those in the meadows, and deliciously fragrant. In the swampy hollows were yellow marsh marigolds and blue forget-me-nots; on the drier soil of the rising bank the wild hyacinths were just shaking open their bells, and heartsease here and there lifted coy heads to the sunlight.

Raymonde and Fauvette wandered about in ecstasy, picking great bunches of the flowers, and running from clump to clump with thrills of delight. Surely even Freckles's "Limberlost" could not be more beautiful than this. A persistent cuckoo was calling in the meadow close by; a thrush with his brown throat all a-ruffle trilled in a birch tree overhead, and a blackbird warbled his heart out among the hazel bushes by the fence. The girls went peeping here and there and everywhere in quest of birds' nests, and their diligent search was amply rewarded. In the hollow of a decaying stump a robin was feeding five little gaping mouths, the blackbird's mate guarded four speckled eggs, and three separate thrushes had pale-blue treasures in clay-lined cradles amidst the undergrowth.

As they penetrated farther into the wood they struck upon a pond closely surrounded by sallows and alders. Raymonde peered through the shimmering leaves, and called Fauvette with a cry of joy, for covering almost the entire surface of the water was a ma.s.s of the gorgeous pale-pink fringed blossoms of the bog bean. The girls had never found it before, and it was indeed rare for it to be growing in a Midland county. They thought it was the most beautiful flower they had ever seen. How to pick any was the difficulty, for even the nearest piece lay fully a yard from the edge of the pond, and the finest blooms were in the middle of the water.

"I'm going to get some somehow, if I have to take off my shoes and stockings!" declared Raymonde.

An easier way than wading, however, presented itself. Close by the side of the pond was a young tree which had been blown over by the spring gales; the forester had chopped it from its roots, but had not yet removed it. By dint of much energy the girls lifted this, and pushed it over the water till part of it rested securely on an alder which grew on a little island in the midst. It made a rather shaky but perfectly possible bridge, if not for Fauvette, at least for Raymonde.

The latter advanced upon it cautiously but courageously. She took three steps, almost slipped, but regained her balance by a miracle, grasped an overhanging bough of the alder, and set a firm foot on the island. From here, by reaching a long arm, she could gather some fine specimens of the bog bean. She pulled it up in handfuls, with trailing oozy stalks. As she turned to grip the alder branch before venturing back over her primitive bridge, her eye suddenly caught sight of a large nest built at the extreme brink of the water. It held four browny-speckled eggs, and an agitated moorhen, seeking cover among the reeds, gave the clue to their parentage.

The school was making a collection of birds' eggs for its museum.

There were plenty of robins' and thrushes' and blackbirds', and all the common varieties, but so far not a solitary specimen of a moorhen's egg. Raymonde felt that even at the risk of betraying their secret expedition she must secure some of these. She decided to go halves, to take two and leave two in the nest to console the moorhen when she came back. She wrapped them in some gra.s.s and packed them in her handkerchief, which she slung round her neck for safety. Then taking her bunch of bog bean she managed to scramble back to the bank.

The girls were naturalists enough to remove their tree-trunk from the island, lest it should tempt marauding boys to go across and discover the moorhen's nest. They hoped the bird would return and sit again when they were out of the way. Each carefully carrying one of the precious eggs, they went on farther to explore the wood. They had only walked a short distance when Fauvette stopped suddenly.

"What's that queer squeaking noise?" she asked.

"Do you hear it too?" confirmed Raymonde.

The girls glanced round, and then looked at each other blankly. There was no doubt that the persistent chirruping and peeping came from the eggs in their hands.

"Oh, good night! The wretched things are hatching out!" gasped Raymonde.

They had indeed robbed the poor moorhen at the very moment when her chicks were in the process of hatching. Already there was a chip in the side of each egg, and a tiny bill began to protrude, the owner of which was raising a shrill clamour of welcome to the world. The girls laid them hastily down on the gra.s.s.

"Those won't be any use for the museum!" exploded Fauvette.

"I wonder if we ought to put them back," murmured Raymonde, decidedly conscience-stricken, though somewhat unwilling to venture again over the slippery tree-trunk.

She might perhaps have braved the crossing, and restored the eggs to the nest, but at that moment the rain, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came down in a torrent. She felt it had sealed the fate of the chicks.

"We'll just have to leave them here. It's like murder, but I can't help it. If we don't get back quick we shall be drenched."

As the girls turned to retrace their steps they became aware that they were not alone in the wood. Some distance among the bushes a dark coat and hat were plainly advancing in their direction. Undoubtedly somebody had been watching them and was following them. Wild visions of Black Jack and his "Limberlost" gang swam before their eyes, and with one accord they ran--ran anywhere, panic-stricken, bent only on escaping.

A voice shouted, and it added to their terror, and sent them hurrying on the faster. They imagined oaths and pistol-shots behind them. Such exciting scenes were all very well in the pages of _Freckles_, but they would be decidedly out of place in an English wood. When it came to the point, neither of them possessed the courage and presence of mind of the Swamp Angel.

Suppose they found themselves bound and gagged, and tied to trees, while some dastardly ruffians hewed down the best timber in the wood?

The shouts behind grew nearer. Their pursuer was evidently gaining upon them. Through the pouring rain they struggled on, splashing anyhow through swampy places, regardless of soaked shoes and stockings, pushing through wet bushes and underneath dripping branches, possessed by the one idea of flight. Down through the hollow where they had gathered the forget-me-nots, and up the bluebell bank they struggled, with never a thought for the flowers; and they were just about to scramble over some felled trees when Raymonde, who was a yard in advance, caught her foot in a tangle of brier and fell on her hands and knees among the springing bracken. Fauvette, unable to stop herself, collided heavily and collapsed by her side. Too much out of breath to stir, the girls lay for a few moments panting.

"Hallo! Wait!" shouted their pursuer.

The rather rasping, authoritative voice was so well known and familiar that the girls scrambled up and turned round, to find--no desperate villain armed with revolver and bowie-knife, but Miss Gibbs, in a neat, shiny-black mackintosh and rainproof hat to match. She advanced breathless and agitated, and very decidedly out of temper.