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bid.”

After the boys had started out gayly, promising to bring home at least a dozen fish, the girls set out in a different direction. They felt rather penitent because they had not seen the little old lady for two days and they wondered if she had been frightened at all during the storm. Also they were anxious to see more of her exquisite embroideries.

“It certainly is queer,” marveled Mollie, as they neared the little house on the top of the hill, “that we just happened to run across the little old lady and find out she’s the same one the girl in the Woman’s Exchange told us of.”

The girls agreed that it was, Amy adding something unoriginal to the effect that “it was a pretty small world, after all.”

The girls found the little old woman as gentle and uncomplaining as ever, although they thought they could sense under the calmness of her manner how much she had missed them.

When Grace asked to see some more of her needlework, the old lady’s eyes brightened and she hurried into the next room, returning with two or three pieces of such elaborate and exquisite workmanship that the girls were newly astonished.

“How in the world did you ever learn to do it?” asked Betty.

“My mother taught me when I was a child,” returned the queer little person, evidently much pleased and flattered by their admiration. “My mother did wonderful work.”

“It couldn’t have been better than this,” protested Amy, at which the little old lady shook her head doubtfully, although she looked more proud and pleased than ever.

They spent a happy afternoon with their Old Maid of the Mountains, listening to her sprightly reminiscences of “the days when she was young.” But as the hours passed there seemed to be a good deal of sadness mixed with her mood and she fell frequently into long silences from which the girls found it difficult to arouse her.

They were worried about her, for she seemed to have grown even more feeble since they had last seen her and she had formed the habit of muttering to herself.

Once Betty heard her say, so softly that the Little Captain could hardly be sure she heard the words at all:

“The injustice of it, oh, the injustice of it!”

Betty wrinkled her pretty brows in a thoughtful expression and sighed, wishing she could do something to help.

“I don’t suppose anything can be done, after all,” she thought with another sigh. “The world is full of injustice.”

During one of her talkative spells the girls learned that the real name of the Old Maid of the Mountains was Isabella Weeks and that the little cabin she now occupied once belonged to her grandfather.

“It’s about the only thing I have left,” the old lady had said in a burst of confidence and had immediately relapsed into one of her long silences.

On their way back to camp that night the girls were unusually thoughtful. Through Betty’s head kept running persistently the refrain of the little old lady’s muttered words:

“The injustice of it, oh, the injustice of it!”

CHAPTER XXII
A CLEW

As the Outdoor Girls were nearing camp Mollie finally broke the long silence that had fallen upon them.

“Something’s got to be done for that old lady,” she said, explosively. “She oughtn’t to live up there all alone. Didn’t you notice to-day how queer she acted? It’s enough to drive anybody crazy, living alone like that.”

“I think she has probably had a great deal of trouble——” began Amy.

“Humph,” grunted Mollie. “She has plenty of that now.”

“Yes, but I mean in her early life,” persisted Amy. “Do you notice that every time she tries to tell us about something real connected with her girlhood she brings herself up short——”

“And closes up like a clam?” Grace finished, adding, with a nod: “Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“I suppose if her past life hasn’t been pleasant,” said Betty, gently, “she naturally wouldn’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s true, of course,” argued Mollie. “But she doesn’t have to be so—so—secretive about it. She acts as though there were some mystery that she was trying to conceal.”

“Well, it’s her mystery,” drawled Grace. “I suppose she has a perfect right to conceal it if she wants to.”

“But we really ought to help her,” said Mollie, going back to her original point. “She’s far too old and feeble to be living alone.”

They walked on for a while in silence and then Mollie asked suddenly:

“By the way, Betty—I meant to ask you before—has Allen said anything about that case he was working on?”

“Not much,” answered Betty, “except that he’s still working on it. He says he can’t really say anything about it yet.”

“There you go again,” said Mollie, feeling injured. “I believe he’s just cooking up something, so as to make us curious.”

“Hardly,” laughed Betty, adding, reasonably: “It must be pretty serious to keep him in town, you know, when he’s crazy to be here with us. Well, what in the world——” she broke off to stare as they came out into the open space before their camp.

Frank and Will had returned from their fishing trip and, unlike Mollie and Grace, they had not returned empty-handed. No wonder the girls stared. There were at least a dozen good-sized fish in the pan, all cleaned and ready for cooking. Having got thus far in their preparations, the boys had turned their attention to the making of a fire good enough to do justice to the day’s catch.

When they espied the girls they beckoned to them gleefully.

“Come hither and look what we have brought,” called Frank, invitingly.

“We see it!” exclaimed Betty heartily. “You sure did have good luck!”

“Good luck nothing,” snorted Will. “That’s all the credit you ever get for being a high-class sportsman.”

“I suppose,” said Mollie, with elaborate sarcasm, “that you simply whistled to the innocent fish and they came running.”

“Swimming,” corrected Frank, gravely, at which nonsense they were forced to laugh.

The delightful days passed one after another till it was almost time to look for Allen and Roy again. They fished and hiked and took long rides in the Gem and generally and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

However, even in the height of their fun the girls never forgot Miss Weeks, their little Old Maid of the Mountains. They even one day enticed her down to their camp, taking the easiest and shortest way, later giving her a ride in the motor boat.

Although the little old lady seemed to enjoy herself immensely, the ride was never repeated. In spite of the girls’ attentions and the wholesome food they continued to supply her with, the little old lady grew paler day by day until she finally became so feeble it seemed as though a strong wind might blow her away altogether.

And because the girls had taken a profound interest in the lonesome old lady and had grown very fond of her they worried a good deal about her condition and tried hard to think of some way in which they might help her without hurting her pride.

But it seemed a problem that was almost impossible of solution and for the present, at least, they were forced to give it up.

And then Allen and Roy were with them once more, Allen still grave and thoughtful, but very, very glad to be with them, just the same.

He was relieved when the boys and girls told him there had been no sign of the tramps during his absence and it might have been noticed that he looked at Betty as though he thought it altogether too good to be true that she was still safe and happy.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” he told her a little later that same day. They had become separated from the others and, finding a convenient stone wall, had hoisted themselves upon it, swinging their feet and all ready for a good old “pow-wow.” “I’ve imagined all sorts of awful things happening to you,” Allen went on, while Betty demurely looked the other way. “I had you so much on my mind that I couldn’t half attend to my work.”

“I’m sorry,” said Betty, still demurely. “I tried to behave myself.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Allen, banteringly. “I’ve never seen you do it yet.”

“Well,” said Betty comfortably, “I don’t intend to argue about it. The weather’s too warm, and, besides, we never do agree.”

“I think we do—sometimes—very well,” said Allen, and at his tone, Betty hastily changed the subject.

“Tell me,” she said, “about what you have been doing in town. Have you found out any more about what that poor old man had on his mind?”

“I know all about that,” said Allen, the puzzled frown growing on his forehead which Betty had come to associate with any mention of the case he was working on. “I know the old man and his motives from A to Z. If I could only find his sister——”

“His sister!” Betty exclaimed, surprised, and Allen bit his lip.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, adding, abruptly: “Let’s talk of something else.”

“I don’t know anything to talk about,” said Betty, a little coolly. She did not like the way Allen shut her out of his confidence, even if it was business. “We’ve been having lots of fun, but not very much adventure.”

“Miss me?” he questioned, and immediately Betty became her old tantalizing self once more. She smiled at him mysteriously and murmured, with her face turned the other way: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

It was Allen’s turn to be put out. Since he said nothing, neither did Betty, and for some time they sat staring before them, each busy with his own thoughts.

It was Betty at last who broke the rather ridiculous silence by speaking of the Old Maid of the Mountains. By Allen’s blank stare she realized that this was the first mention he had heard of their little old lady.

“Let’s get down and join the others,” said Betty, as she swung herself to the ground, “and while we’re on the way I’ll tell you of our queer little discovery.”

Betty had expected Allen to be rather mildly interested, but she was not prepared for the sudden keen interest he showed when she mentioned the exquisite needlework of the little old lady.

“What kind of embroidery does she do?” he queried, excitedly.

“Why,” said Betty, puzzled at his attitude, “she does all kinds——”

“Any special design, or pattern?” asked Allen, impatiently.

“Why,” returned Betty, “I do recall that she seemed to have a special fancy for butterflies and roses. It’s Danish embroidery she does, very elaborate and a great deal of open work. But why, Allen? Why are you so anxious to know?”

Allen countered with another question.

“Can I—will it be possible—for me to see this old lady?” he asked, almost feverishly.

“Allen,” said Betty, with a chuckle, “in just about a moment I’ll be getting jealous!”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE LEAN-TO

For answer Allen took Betty by the shoulder and shook her gently.

“Betty,” he said, “I don’t think you understand how really important this is to me. If this old lady is who I think she is, all my difficulties are solved.”

“But I don’t see——”

“I’ll tell you, then,” interrupted Allen. There was no doubt but what he was terribly in earnest and something of his excitement communicated itself to Betty.

“You remember this man who died—my client?” he began again, striding along, his hands in his pockets, a furious frown on his face.

“Remember him?” echoed Betty. “When have I had a chance to forget——”

But again Allen interrupted impatiently.

“This old man,” said the young lawyer, and despite herself Betty was impressed by his earnestness, “was, as I think I have told you before, a pretty stubborn fellow. What he believed, he believed with all his heart and, what was more, he never allowed any one to argue with him.”

For the life

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