“Cheer for Mrs. Evans,” cried Sahwah, and the Winnebagos gave it with a hearty good will.

Hinpoha, with Sahwah close beside her, began I searching for firewood industriously.  “It seems just like last summer,” she said, chopping sticks with Sahwah’s hatchet.  The two had wandered off a short distance from the others, following a tiny footpath.  Suddenly they came upon a huge rock formation, that looked like an immense fireplace, about forty feet wide and twenty or more feet high.  Under that great stone arch a dozen spits, each big enough to hold a whole ox, might easily have swung.  Sahwah and Hinpoha looked at it in amazement and then called for the other girls to come and see.

“Why, that’s the ‘Old Maid’s Kitchen,’” said Mrs. Evans, when she arrived on the scene.  “I’ve been here before.  Just why it should be called the Old Maid’s Kitchen is more than I can tell, for it looks like the fireplace belonging to the grand-mother of all giantesses.”

“Let’s build our fire inside of it,” said Nyoda.

“The original ‘Old Maid’ had a convenience that didn’t usually go with open fireplaces,” said Gladys, “and that is running water,” and she held her cup under a tiny stream that trickled out between two rocks, cold as ice and clear as crystal.

“Wouldn’t this be a grand place for a Ceremonial Meeting?” said Migwan, as they all stood round the blazing fire roasting “wieners” and bacon.  The Kitchen had a floor of smooth slabs of rock, and the arch of the fireplace formed a roof over their heads, while its wide opening afforded them a wonderful view of the gorge.

“Whenever you want to come here again, just say so,” said Mrs. Evans, “and I’ll bring you down in the machine.”  Mrs. Evans was enjoying herself as much as any of the girls.  It was the first time she had ever cooked wieners and bacon over an open fire on green sticks, and she was perfectly delighted with the experience.  “If my husband could only see me now,” she said, laughing like a girl as she dropped her last wiener in the dirt and calmly washed it off in the trickling stream.  “How good this hot cocoa tastes!” she exclaimed, drinking down a whole cupful without stopping.  “What kind is it?”

“Camp Fire Girl Cocoa,” answered the girls.

“What kind is that?” asked Mrs. Evans.

“It is a brand that is put up by a New York firm for the Camp Fire Girls to sell,” answered Nyoda.

“Why have we never had any of this at our house?” asked Mrs. Evans, turning to Gladys.

“You have always insisted that you would use no other kind than Van Horn’s,” replied Gladys, “so I thought there would be no use in mentioning it.”

“I like this better than Van Horn’s,” said her mother.  “Is there any to be had now?”

“There certainly is,” answered Nyoda.  “We are trying to dispose of a hundred-can lot to pay our annual dues.”

“Let me have a dozen cans,” said Mrs. Evans.  “I will serve Camp Fire Girl Cocoa to my Civic Club next Wednesday afternoon.  I——­”