a big one there, and
it's taken; but the people aren't coming until next month."

"If a larger party had taken Camp Roy," said Mr. Archibald to his wife a
little later, "I should not mind it so much. But two young men! I do not
like it."

CHAPTER VII

A STRANGER

It was at the close of a pleasant afternoon four days after the arrival of
the young men at Camp Roy, and Mrs. Archibald was seated on a camp-stool
near the edge of the lake intently fishing. By her side stood Phil
Matlack, who had volunteered to interpose himself between her and all the
disagreeable adjuncts of angling. He put the bait upon her hook, he told
her when her cork was bobbing sufficiently to justify a jerk, and when she
caught a little fish he took it off the hook. Fishing in this pleasant
wise had become very agreeable to the good lady, and she found pleasures
in camp life which she had not anticipated. Her husband was in a boat some
distance out on the lake, and he was also fishing, but she did not care
for that style of sport; the fish were too big and the boat too small.

A little farther down the lake Martin Sanders sat busily engaged in
putting some water-fowl into the foreground of Margery's sketch. A
critical observer might have noticed that he had also made a number of
changes in said sketch, all of which added greatly to its merits as a
picture of woodland scenery. At a little distance Margery was sitting at
her easel making a sketch of Martin as an artist at work in the woods. The
two young men had gone off with their guns, not perhaps because they
expected to find any legitimate game at that season, but hoping to secure
some ornithological specimens, or to get a shot at some minor quadrupeds
unprotected by law. Another reason for their expedition could probably
have been found in some strong hints given by Mr. Archibald that it was
unwise for them to be hanging around the camps and taking no advantage of
the opportunities for sport offered by the beautiful weather and the
forest.

It was not long before Margery became convinced that the sketch on which
she was working did not resemble her model, nor did it very much resemble
an artist at work in the woods.

"It looks a good deal more like a cobbler mending shoes," she said to
herself, "and I'll keep it for that. Some day I will put a bench under him
and a shoe in his hand instead of a sketch." With that she rose, and went
to see how Martin was getting on. "I think," she