“Nearly everything,” said Bell, with judicious candour.  “He cannot write verses, and he does not like dancing; those are the only things I can think of just now.”

A birch canoe glided silently round the point; Roger was kneeling in the stern, paddling, Indian fashion, while Will and Kitty were curled up like two kittens in the bow.  Hildegarde thought to herself that he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, so strong, so gentle, so perfectly graceful; but she did not say so.

“What luck?” cried Bell, as the Cheemaun came alongside the wharf.  Roger held up a string of gleaming fish, two of them long, deep-bodied fellows, striped with pink and silver.  Willy was happy with three hideous horned pouts, which he declared were the best fish that swam.

“Oh, pickerel! how delightful!” cried Bell, as she took the beauties from her brother’s hands.  “We will bake them for supper, Hilda; it is our turn, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” said Willy, “I thought it was Toots’ and Roger’s turn.  Toots makes the best griddle-cakes, and she ought always to get supper.”

“Willy, you ungrateful little monster!” cried Bell.  “And you said only last night that my biscuits were a dream of joy.  You won’t find me baking an extra pan for you, if you are going to turn upon me in this way.”

“Oh yes! so you did, sister,” said Willy, penitently.  “But you see, I am griddle-cake hungry to-day, and yesterday I wasn’t.”

“Come, Hilda! we’ll make our little gentleman pickerel-hungry before he is an hour older!” and the two girls hurried into the house.

Inside the camp was a large, low room, with a huge open fireplace filling nearly one side.  A plain table stood in the middle; two hammocks were slung against the walls, which were hung with guns and fishing-rods.  A bookcase in one corner, and Mrs. Merryweather’s workstand in another, completed the furniture of the primitive parlour.  On one side a door opened into the tiny kitchen, and hither the girls now betook themselves, after reminding Will and Kitty that it was their turn to set the supper table.  The fire was soon burning brightly in the stove, the kettle put on to boil, and Hildegarde, rolling up her sleeves, set to work mixing and moulding biscuits, while Bell devoted herself to the stuffing and dressing of the big fish.

“I wish I had Izaak Walton here!” she said, as she mixed the bread stuffing.

“Father Izaak pleasant company would be at any moment,” Hilda assented; “but what do you want him for just now?  To cook the fish for you?”

“Not exactly; I doubt if he was as good in the kitchen as by the brookside; but to give me his famous receipt for cooking pickerel.  I should like to astonish the family with it.  I remember that it has thyme in it, and sweet marjoram and summer savory, not to mention oysters and anchovies, a pound of butter, a bottle of claret and three or four oranges; he gives you your choice about two cloves of garlic, and says you need not have them unless you like.  Perhaps on the whole it is just as well not to try the dish at present; the anchovies were left behind, and the orange trees are not bearing very well this year.”