t the whiteness of a blossoming
dogwood-tree. Far away the squalling of a catbird mingled with the
mellow cadences of the mountain stream.

There was the sound of laughter, too, and the chatter of gay voices in
the distance, where the young people fished from the banks.

Judy could just see them through an opening in the pines. The three
girls perched on the bent trunk of an old tree, which hung over the
water, were dangling their lines and watching the corks that bobbed on
the surface. The Judge, with a big hat pushed away from his warm, red
face, held the can of bait and discoursed entertainingly on his past
angling experiences.

Perkins in the foreground was opening the lunch-hampers, and just
outside of Judy's circle of pines, a brisk little fire sent up its
pungent smoke, and beside the fire, Launcelot Bart was cutting bacon.

Judy watched him with interest. He was tall and thin, but he carried
himself with a lazy grace, and in spite of his old corduroy suit, there
was about him a certain air of distinction.

He was whistling softly as he put the iron pan over the coals, and
dropped into it a half-dozen slices of the bacon.

"Watch these, Perkins," he called, "I'll be back in a minute," and he
started towards the hammock.

As he came up, Judy closed her eyes, with an air of indifference.

"Asleep?" asked Launcelot, a half-dozen steps from her.

Judy opened her eyes.

"Oh--is that you?" she asked.

"Yes. Don't you want to come and help me cook?" He was smiling down
at her pleasantly.

"I hate cooking." Judy's voice was cold. She hoped he would go away.

Launcelot leaned against a tree to discuss the question.

"Oh," he said. "I don't hate it. It's rather a fine art, you know."

"Anybody can cook," murmured Judy with decision.

"H-m. Can you, little girl?"

Judy sat up at that. "I'm fourteen," she flashed.

Launcelot laughed, such a contagious laugh, that in spite of herself
Judy felt the corners of her lips twitch.

"That waked you up," he said, "you didn't like to have me call you
'little girl.' Well, am I to say Miss Jameson or Judy?"

Judy pondered.

"Neither," she said at last.

"Then what--?" began Launcelot. "Oh, by Jove, the bacon's burning.
I'll be back in a minute."

When he had taken the bacon out of the pan, and had laid the fish in a
corn-mealed symmetrical row in the hot fat, he again turned the pan
over to Perkins and came back to Judy.

"Well?" he asked, as