Marion had visited her home, and there found the mother and daughter apparently in moderate circumstances.  Naturally, she had wondered a little that Mrs. Nash should be able to support her daughter at a private school, even though that institution made a specialty of teaching rich men’s daughters how to be useful and economical, but the reason why had never been explained to her.  Helen got her remittances from home regularly, and seemed to have no particular cause to worry about finances.  She had spent parts of two vacations at the Stanlock home and there conducted herself as if quite naturally able to fit in with luxurious surroundings and large accommodations.

Only a few days before the Christmas holidays, something had occurred that emphasized Helen’s secretive peculiarity to such an extent that Marion was considerably provoked and just a little mystified.  A young man, somewhere about 25 or 27 years old, fairly well but not expensively dressed, and bearing the appearance of one who had seen a good deal of the rough side of life, called at the Institute and asked for Miss Nash.  He was ushered into the reception room and Helen was summoned.  One of the girls who witnessed the meeting told some of her friends that Miss Nash was evidently much surprised, if not unpleasantly disturbed, when she recognized her caller.  Immediately she put on a coat and hat and she and the young man went out.  An hour later she returned alone, and to no one did she utter a word relative to the stranger’s visit, not even to her roommate, who had passed them in the hall as they were going out.

Helen Nash was a member of the Flamingo Camp Fire and accompanied the other members on their vacation trip to the mountain mining district.  The other eleven who boarded the train with Marion, the holiday hostess, were Ruth Hazelton, Ethel Zimmerman, Ernestine Johanson, Hazel Edwards, Azalia Atwood, Harriet Newcomb, Estelle Adler, Julietta Hyde, Marie Crismore, Katherine Crane, and Violet Munday.

Miss Ladd, the Guardian, also was one of Marion’s invited guests.  The party took possession of one end of the parlor car, which, fortunately, was almost empty before they boarded it.  Then began a chatter of girl voices—­happy, spirited, witty, and promising to continue thus to the end of the journey, or until their kaleidoscopic subjects of conversation were exhausted.

Every thrilling detail of the evening before was gone over, examined, given its proper degree of credit, and filed away in their memories for future reference.  There was more catching of breath, more cheering, more clapping of hands; but no mock jeers, now that the boys were absent, as the events of the Boy Scouts’ invasion and the many incidental and brilliant results were recalled and repictured.

“I wonder what Harry Gilbert meant when he said some of them were planning another surprise nearly as thrilling as the one they sprung last night,” said Azalia Atwood, with characteristic excitable expectation.  “He addressed himself to you, Marion, when he said it; and he’s a close friend of your cousin, Clifford Long.  Whatever it is, I bet anything it will fall heaviest on this Camp Fire when it comes.”