rk."

Then the whimsical artist came up and addressed Mr. Wing. "Did I hear
you say you could get to Oakwood on the electric?" he inquired. "I'm
going there too. My name is Prince, Eugene Prince."

"Glad to meet you," replied Mr. Wing heartily. "Come along." He summoned
the porter to carry out the various suitcases.

Before long the little party were aboard the electric car, and reached
Oakwood almost as soon as they would have if the train had not been held
up. The electric car went by the railway station and the Winnebagos got
off, because Nyoda would be waiting for them there. Mr. Wing and the
artist went on to the center of the town.

CHAPTER III

CARVER HOUSE

Nyoda was waiting for them on the platform, looking just as she used to,
radiant, girlish, enthusiastic, bubbling over with fun. Not a shade of
sadness or anxiety in her face betrayed the loneliness in her heart and
her longing for the presence of the dear man she had sent forth in the
cause of liberty. In respect to sorrows, Nyoda's attitude toward the
world had always been, "Those which are yours are mine, but those which
are mine are my own."

Encircled by four pairs of Winnebago arms and with eager questions being
hurled at her from all sides, it seemed as if the old times had come
again indeed.

"Sahwah! Migwan! Hinpoha! Gladys!" she exclaimed joyfully, looking at
them with beaming eyes. "My own Winnebagos! But come, I'm dying to show
you my new playhouse," and she led the way across the station platform
to where her automobile stood waiting.

A swift spin along a quiet avenue bordered with immense old oaks that
stood like rows of soldiers at attention, and up quite a steep hill,
from which they could look back upon the houses and buildings clustering
in the valley, which was the heart of the town, and then they drew up
before a very old brick house which stood on the summit of the hill. It
had green blinds and a fanlight over the front door, and a brick walk
running from the front steps to the street, bordered on each side by a
box hedge in a prim, Ladies' Garden effect like one sees in the
illustrations of children's poems.

"Oh, Nyoda, how splendid!" cried Hinpoha, her artistic soul delighted
beyond measure at the hedge and the walk and the white door with its
quaint knocker.

"Wait until you see the inside," replied Nyoda, throwing open the door
with the pleased air of a child exhibiting a new and cherished toy.

Cries of admi