Everybody was looking at Nancy, in fact.

Mary and Elinor were wondering why Nancy looked so conscious.  Miss Campbell was thinking how pale the girl looked, and Mr. Campbell was thinking of something quite different, but very important, concerning Nancy Brown.

Billie tried to cover the uncomfortable silence by adding with a forced cordiality: 

“Nancy-Bell needs the change more than any of us.”

“Very well, if agreeable to your Royal Highness, I will let you know tonight when we shall break up camp and march for the hills.”

“Good,” cried Billie.  “The Court is prepared to move on a moment’s notice.”

Mr. Campbell beckoned to his daughter to follow him to his library after breakfast.  Billie had already had a foreboding that something was the matter, and she was sure of it as soon as she had entered the room and closed the door.

Her father was standing at his desk frowning as he looked thoughtfully into space, and Mr. Campbell never frowned unless he had something to frown about.

“What’s the matter, Papa?”

“Where are the others?”

“Gone to their rooms, I suppose, or in the garden.  I didn’t notice.”

He drew an easy chair up by the open window and Billie took her seat on the arm and rested her cheek against his.

“Papa, is there any trouble brewing in this house?” she asked presently.

Mr. Campbell blew out a long column of smoke from his morning cigar.

“What makes you think so, sweetheart?” he asked.

“I can feel it.  It’s in the air—­it’s all about us.  It’s like a sort of plague.  Nancy’s got it, and now you are getting it, and I have a feeling I shall catch it, too.”

“Has Nancy got it?”

“She got it first and she’s giving it to all the rest of us.  Oh, Papa, it’s the very first time anything like this has ever happened on any of our trips.  It’s making me quite wretched.”

“But what is it, little girl?”

“I don’t know, at least, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?  Then you do know something?”

Billie did not wish to tell her father about the letter Nancy had written.  She felt that her father might not take such a charitable view of it as she had, and she had a feeling she must protect poor Nancy, wounded as she had been by her strange behavior.

“Then you do know something?” repeated Mr. Campbell.

“Oh, just the littlest something, but I don’t want to tell you, Papa.”

Mr. Campbell settled himself into the depths of his chair and drew his arm around his daughter’s waist.

“That’s right, little daughter.  I’d rather you’d be loyal than anything else in the world,” he said, stroking her hand.  “But I’m going to tell you a little bit of something.  I want to ask your advice.  I don’t know what to do.  You must help your old father decide.”

“Fire away, Papa.”