anor Meade
and Meg Everett. Both these girls had expressed themselves as deeply
shocked and grieved over Polly's behavior, though neither of them
appeared to be ready to make any statement of their views on this
occasion. It was one thing to express an informal opinion of another
girl's action, but quite another to make a formal accusation against
her in the club where they had lived and worked and grown together in
bonds almost closer than family ones.

Next Edith studied Sylvia Wharton's expression. Day and night had
Sylvia nursed Polly with infinite patience, and yet she had made no
effort to conceal her disapproval of her stepsister's conduct and
Sylvia might always be relied upon for an honest and straightforward
statement of her opinion. Yet Sylvia's face at the present moment was
as empty as though she had never had an idea in her life.

Just why this continuing silence should make the original Sunrise Hill
Camp Fire guardian smile, no one understood. However, the Lady of the
Hill knew very well why and was feeling strangely relieved. For had
she not permitted a dangerous test of the Camp Fire spirit to be tried
and were the girls not responding just as she had hoped and believed
they would? Surely during these past two years they had been
developing a real understanding of comradeship, the ability to stick
together, to keep step. And girls and women had for so many centuries
been accused of the inability to do this.

"I think that no one of us holds Esther Crippen in any way responsible
for Polly O'Neill's action or for continuing to keep her family in
ignorance of what she was doing," Edith finally began in a rather weak
voice, seeing that no one else showed any sign of speaking. "It is one
of the things that I think she is most to be blamed for, since it is
hardly fair to bring another club member into a difficulty on account
of her feeling of personal loyalty."

Betty frowned. There was so much of truth in Edith's speech that it
could hardly fail to carry a certain amount of conviction.

But before any one could reply, Sylvia Wharton got up from the floor,
where she had been sitting in Camp Fire fashion, and crossing the room,
stood before the flames, facing the circle of girls with her hands
clasped in front of her and her lips shut tight together. Her usually
sallow skin was a good deal flushed.

"I am going to make a motion to this club," she announced, "but before
I do I want to say some