Are you an orphan?" she asked with guileful curiosity.

"No," said Philip.

"I'm sorry," said Diane maliciously. "For then I could take out papers
of adoption--"

"I'll stay without them," promised Philip. And Diane added wood to the
fire with cheeks like the scarlet sunset.

"I'm going to send for my aunt," she announced a few days later.

"Yes?" said Philip.

"Unconventionality of any sort shocks her dreadfully. Like as not
she'll faint dead away at the sight of you domiciled in my camp as if
you own it. She'll see that you go."

"Better not," advised Philip.

"Why?"

"I'll produce credentials proving I'm a reputable victim of
circumstances. I'll suggest that in complete concurrence with her I
deem it unsafe for a young and attractive girl to tour about the
country--and that I do not feel that I can conscientiously depart.
Between the two of us you'll likely have a most uncomfortable hour or
so."

Aunt Agatha was impressionable. It needed but a spark of concurrence
to arouse her dreadfully. Diane dismissed the project.

"I think," she said hopefully, "that you'll most likely go to-night."

"In any circumstances," said Philip easily, "I fear that would be
impossible. Johnny's behind with the laundry and I haven't a
collarable shirt." Whereupon he whistled for Nero and set off amiably
through the woods to gather an inaccessible flower he knew his lady
would prize.

By nine that night Diane was asleep in the van. Philip, with whom she
had indignantly crossed swords a little earlier, lay thoughtfully by
the fire watching the snowy curtains of the van windows billowing
lazily in the warm night wind. He felt restless and perturbed and
presently sought his tent, where he lit the bottled candle to look for
the predecessor of his insatiable wildwood pipe, but halted suddenly
with a peculiar whistle.

The silk shirt he had worn from Sherrill's lay conspicuously upon the
bed, washed and ironed and beautifully mended up the slashed sleeve and
along the shoulder. As a laundress of parts, Johnny was a jewel, but
he could not mend!

Now oddly enough as Mr. Poynter stared at the shirt upon the bed, his
appearance was that of a young man decidedly out of sorts. Presently
with an ominous glint of temper in his fine eyes, he noiselessly
rearranged his tent, viciously donned the offending shirt, whistled for
Nero and leaving the camp of his lady as unexpectedly as he had entered
it, set out for Sherrill