“The girl scouts are better than the police,” she decided, not quite understanding how both could work so intimately, along different lines, yet each reaching the same result to assist wayward girls.

This was, surely, a queer sort of arrest, a lovely kind of cell, and a most friendly pair of jailers, the little runaway had fallen among, and that she dreamed wonderful dreams, glowing with roses and fragrant with perfume, was not to be wondered at, for Mrs. Cosgrove’s linen was sweet enough to induce even more delicious fancies.

But what of poor, lost, erring, headstrong Tessie Warlitz?  Rose imagined her in all sorts of wild predicaments, but with that kindness so marked in girls who have themselves suffered cruel misunderstandings, Rose determined not to betray her chum, but rather to do her utmost to find her, and win her back to good standing among girls—­somehow.  Thus really began in so subtle a manner her own interest in the principles of the Girl Scouts.

“To help an erring sister” is a fundamental of the cause, but Rose little knew what that silent consecration would cost her.  When all was quiet, late that night, young Martin Cosgrove sauntered along home and giving the familiar “three dots and a dash” whistle notified his mother of his approach.  The light in the sitting-room window had in its turn told Martin his mother awaited him.

“S-s-sh!” whispered the mother, opening the door very softly.  “Don’t make any noise.”

“What’s up or who’s sick?” asked the good-looking young man, pinching his mother’s plump arm.

“There’s a little girl asleep in the spare room.  Don’t wake her,” cautioned the mother, who, to prevent even a hat falling, had secured Martin’s things and was putting them on the rack.

“Friend of Molly’s?  Some new girl scout?” he asked, when they reached the seclusion of the kitchen.

“Well, no, not just that, but a poor child Dad found lost,” she compromised.

“Lost, eh!  And Chief of Police Mrs. Cosgrove rescued the lost chee-il-dd—­as usual!  Mom, you’re a great cop, and I hear Molly is following in your fair footsteps!”

“Stop your nonsense, Marty, and be off to bed.  It’s awful late!  There’s your fresh shirt for the morning.  Take it along with you.”

“Thanks, Mom, and you have the Chink beat in his line, too,” giving the freshly ironed cambric shirt an approving pat.  “Tell Molly to go easy out at Flosston.  Those True Tred Girl Scouts are a pretty lively little bunch from what I hear.”

“What do you mean?” asked the mother.  “What did you hear about Flosston?”

“Oh, just heard the boys talking.  Nothing very much, but some girls ran away, not scouts, mill girls, mill detectives on their trail, and the Girl Scouts went on a hike and lassoed some poor guy by mistake.  Oh, you know a lot of stuff like that, everybody hears and no one knows the real sense of.  Only I thought Molly, just taking up with the Flosston work, ought to keep both eyes open, and wear good sensible shoes.  Night, Mom!” and he kissed her very fondly.  Mrs. Cosgrove indulged in two special brands of real pride—­her boy and her girl!