ther side by ferns.

Strolling along, Billie thought of many things; of the mountain on the
other side of Indian Head on which fires had started and where bands of
men were now fighting the flames. That was a dreadful thing to do, to
set a forest on fire; a crime against nature as well as against man. She
thought of Phoebe's father, perhaps injured, or worse, who could tell?
Then with a mental leap she thought of Richard Hook and his sister
Maggie; the charm of their personalities; their simplicity; their joy
in living. Billie wondered if she could be happy if she were poor,
really quite poor. It was rather fun cooking, with Alberdina to clean up
after them. It was only for a little while and it was just a sort of
game.

"It would be a dog's life to keep up forever," thought Billie, "but
Richard and Maggie Hook would never admit it. They make the best of
being poor and pretend that living like Gypsies is the most delightful
way of spending one's vacation. I think they are just fine. There is
Phoebe, too. How well she has got on without anything, education, money,
friends. She is wonderful."

Who was Phoebe? Who was her father? Were they not mysterious people?
When the veil was lifted at last, Billie felt convinced that it would
disclose no ordinary identity. They had the marks of distinguished
people in exile. There was a look of family about them both that no
ragged attire could disguise.

Toward the end of the trail, Billie saw an old woman hobbling toward
her, leaning on a stout stick. She looked remarkably like one of the
aged forest trees unexpectedly come to life. A gnarled, brown,
weather-beaten old creature she was, who reminded Billie of a dwarfed
apple tree she had seen in Japan, a little old bent thing said to have
been over two hundred years old. Attached to the woman's waist was a
pocket apron bulging with herbs, camomile and catnip, wood sorrel and
sassafras root.

"Now, if Mary were here," thought Billie, "she would at once make a
story of this: 'The Princess and the Old Witch.' I am sure Mary would
call me a princess," she added modestly.

When the young girl and the old witch met, they paused without exactly
knowing why. The herb gatherer had a strange, small, yellow face,
crossed and re-crossed with wrinkles.

"Good afternoon," said Billie politely, not knowing what else to say.

The old woman waved aside this greeting with her stick.

"You come from Sunrise Camp?" she asked in a voice as cr