“What is it?” demanded Katherine, peering curiously into the pitcher, in whose slightly turbid depths she could see a dark object lying.

“Don’t touch it!” begged Oh-Pshaw, as Katherine’s hand went down into the water.

“Nonsense,” scoffed Katherine, “a dead creature can’t hurt you.  See, it’s only a little mouse that fell into the pitcher and got drowned.  Poor little mousy, it’s a shame he had to meet such a sad fate when he came to visit us.”

“Katherine Adams, put that mouse away!” cried Oh-Pshaw, getting around behind the bed.  “How can you bear to touch such a thing?”

“Doesn’t he look pathetic, with his little paws held out that way?” continued Katherine, unmoved by Oh-Pshaw’s expression of terrified disgust.  “I don’t doubt but what he was the father of a large family—­or maybe the mother—­and there will be great sorrow in the nest out in the field when he doesn’t come home to supper.”

“Throw it away!” commanded Oh-Pshaw.

“Let’s have a funeral,” suggested Jean.  “Here, we can lay him out in the lid of my writing paper box.”

“Grand idea,” replied Katherine, carefully depositing the deceased on the floor beside her bed.

A few minutes later the Lone Wolf, coming along to inspect the tent, found a black middy tie hanging from the tent post, surmounted by a wreath of field daisies, while inside the mouse was laid out in state in the lid of Jean’s writing paper box, surrounded by flowers and leaves.

Word of the tragedy that had taken place in Bedlam was all over camp in no time, and crowds came to gaze on the face of the departed one.  A special edition of the camp paper was gotten out, with monstrous headlines, giving the details of the accident, and announcing the funeral for three o’clock.

Dr. Grayson returned to camp early in the afternoon, bringing with him a professor friend whom he had invited to spend the week-end at camp.  As the two men stepped from the launch to the landing a sound of wailing greeted their ears; long drawn out moans, heartbroken sobs, despairing shrieks, blood-curdling cries.

“What can be the matter?” gasped the Doctor in consternation.

He raced up the path to the bungalow and stood frozen to the spot by the sight that greeted his eyes.  Down the Alley came a procession headed by a wheelbarrow filled with field daisies and wild red lilies, all arranged around a pasteboard box in the center; behind the wheelbarrow came two girls with black middy ties around their heads, carrying spades in their hands; behind them marched, two and two, all the girls who lived in the Alley, each with a black square over her face and all wailing and sobbing and shrieking at the top of their voices.  The procession came to a halt in front of the bungalow porch and Katherine Adams detached herself from the ranks.  Mounting a rock, she broke out into an impassioned funeral oration that put Mark Anthony’s considerably in the shade.  She was waving her hands in an extravagant gesture to accompany an especially eloquent passage, when she suddenly caught sight of Dr. Grayson standing watching the proceedings.