When Mrs. Dunbar heard the story of the day’s adventures, even she showed surprise.

“I hardly know how to excuse myself for allowing you girls to go up there alone,” she said, when the scouts had unfolded the exciting story, “except that you always do seem so capable!” Then she laughed and tapped Cleo under the chin. “Of course you would be capable,” she added, “when you are related to me.”

“Oh, there really wasn’t any danger,” Grace hurried to say, fearful their wings of adventure might be clipped by the scissors of prudence. “Besides, we had Shep with us, you know.”

“Yes, and, Auntie, he acted so queerly,” said Cleo. “He found an old yellow handkerchief, and simply insisted on tearing it to shreds. I never saw him hate anything so.”

“Yellow handkerchief, did you say?” repeated Mrs. Dunbar, and when Cleo said “yes” the aunt just shook her head understandingly. She knew it was also a yellow handkerchief that Shep dragged in with him the night he received the bullet wound. The two articles must have belonged to the same person. No wonder Shep would hate both!

“But do let me get a look at those wonderful trinkets,” said Mrs. Dunbar, when they finally did manage to reach the sitting room and there drop some of the bundles and baskets. “I have never hoard of such a story. To think old Reda had all those hidden away. Of course, you being so young, Mary dear, she may have just intended to keep them till you grew up,” she concluded.

This explanation did not seem to satisfy some of her listeners, although Mary was inclined to accept it. Presently Mrs. Dunbar was examining the little cameos, the quaint foreign rings, and lockets there were a number of lockets. Then Mary offered the photographs for her inspection. The trained eye of the artist lingered on these. Yes, Mary surely was like her pretty mother; and the tall soldierly man! What a pity he had to go so soon from the life of his daughter.

“Makes me think of Guy,” Mrs. Dunbar remarked, “with his love of adventure. He must have been of the same temperament, for I am sure I will soon have to pack up my kit and go traveling if I am to be with my own good looking boy,” and she gave one of her happy, rippling laughs. Audrey Dunbar was still a girl, and “her boy’s” tour through the west had been her first separation from him since their marriage.

“But he will soon be home,” she added, as if the girls had been following her thoughts. “Then let us be prepared for more surprises.”

“Why?” asked Madaline shyly.

“Oh, because he is a very surprising boy!” declared the young wife, “and when he becomes a scout Mercy me! what wonderful things will happen! But now I am going down to see your other find the monkey. Cleo dear, you know my weakness for queer animals, and my love for monkeys often got me in trouble during my hand-organ days. Come along. It will be tea time before we know it.”

In the few hours following it was difficult to make sure just which end of Cragsnook was most fascinating. The girls went from one “exhibit” to the other, with seemingly increasing interest, until Mrs. Dunbar finally locked all the valuables in the safe, and Michael, down in his quarters, had rigged up a cage for “Boxer.” The girls decided he might be called Boxer because they found him in a box, and also because Michael had already discovered he could use his “fists.”

After tea Mary declined an invitation to take a run to the village. She seemed overdone with the day of excitement.

“But you girls go, and bring me some stamps, if you will,” she said. “I want to write a whole book to Grandie to-night. It seems the most satisfactory way of talking to him now,” she finished.

“But you will see him to-morrow,” Cleo reminded her. “Why write?”

“Oh, I like him to get my good morning kiss with his breakfast,” responded Mary, “and, besides, I may be able to prepare him for some of the surprises.”

So Cleo, Grace and Madaline went off to the village, although reluctant to leave Mary alone. Still, her plea to write letters seemed a request not to be interrupted.

Almost before it could be realized thunder rolled over the mountains. A telephone announced the girls would stay with Lucille and Lalia, whom they had met in town, and that all would return by auto as soon as the shower passed. Mary sat by the low window looking ever the porch. Jennie was busy in the kitchen, and Mrs. Dunbar was in her study, writing to the home-coming boy. The storm came on so suddenly that Mary hurried to close the long French window off the living room, when something like a moan sounded, she thought, under the window!

She listened! Yes, surely that was someone moaning. Stepping through the window out onto the porch, a sheet of rain dashed in her face, blinding her so that, for the moment, she was forced to take refuge behind the swinging hammock.

Flashes of lightning now showed a blackened sky, and the terrifying peals of thunder seemed to swallow every other earthly sound.

“But I am sure I heard a human voice,” Mary told herself. “I must see if anyone is about here suffering.”

She was minded to attempt to call for Jennie, when again a low, pitiful moan came as an echo to a terrific thunder clap.

“Who is it?” called Mary, but the sound had died down, and was lost in the storm.

“It could not have been Shep,” Mary was thinking, “and I can’t go inside without finding out what it is. Who is there?” she called, bravely throwing her skirt over her head to ward off the beating rain.

“Mary! Marie, come to Reda!” came a faint reply, and at the sound of the voice, unmistakably that of her old nurse, Mary jumped from the porch, out into the blasting storm, and attempted to follow the direction whence came the sound.

“Reda! Reda! Where are you?” she called frantically. “It is I, Mary. Answer, where are you?” She stopped under a tree to avoid a very deluge that poured down on the path. For a moment she hesitated. What if that letter from New York had been a ruse to trick her into following someone with the idea of helping Reda? But surely that was Reda’s cry.

Again she called and called, but no reply came back, and baffled, as well as frightened, she ran to the house, in through the hall, her dripping garment leaving a path of water as she went, until she reached Jennie in the kitchen.

“Oh, Jennie,” she gasped, “someone is out in the storm! They called me. I am sure it is my old nurse, Reda! How can we find her in this awful downpour?”

“Out in the storm who?” asked the maid, astonished at the plight of the girl who stood trembling before her.

“I am sure it is Reda, and she will perish,” wailed Mary. “What shall I do?”

“Now don’t take on so,” commanded Jennie, beginning to realize what it all meant. “Just you wait until a few of these awful claps are over, and we will quickly find anyone who is out there. Just hear that! Mercy! what a dreadful storm! I am so glad the girls did not venture home. I could scarcely get the windows shut when it broke like a cloud-burst.”

“Why, what is the matter?” came Mrs. Dunbar’s voice from the hall. “Jennie, I am sure someone is crying out in the storm,” she called.

“Come, we must see who it can be.”

“I am afraid it is Reda, my nurse,” said Mary, now almost in tears. “Oh, do you think she will perish? I was out but could not find her.”

Hurried arrangements were made now to summon Michael, and as the storm had somewhat abated it was soon possible to go out with lanterns and search.

Clad in raincoats and rubbers, Mary, Jennie and Mrs. Dunbar went first along the path, toward the gate. Everything seemed quiet, except the late splashes of rain from the trees, and in spite of repeated calls no answer came, and no trace of the storm’s victim could be found.

“Nobody about,” announced Michael, as if satisfied the search had been futile.

Then a stir in the hedge attracted Mary’s attention.

“Listen!” she exclaimed. “Something stirred in here!”

“Fetch the lantern, Michael,” commanded Mrs. Dunbar. “I do see the bushes moving.”

He brought the light, and swung it into the thick hedge.

“Oh, Reda,” cried Mary. “Reda, are you dead!” she screamed, throwing herself down by a huddled figure that lay ominously still in the deep, wet grass.

“Mary, wait,” ordered Mrs. Dunbar kindly. “Here, Michael, give me the light so you can lift her. She may be just overcome.”

But Mary was on her knees beside the old nurse, whose face, bared to the glare of the lantern, looked so death-like!

“Reda! Reda!” called Mary, pressing her young face down to the shriveled features. “Oh, speak to Mary. It is I, Maid Mary! See, I am with you.”

But no sound came from the frozen lips, nor did the wrinkled hands answer Mary’s warm grasp.

“She is likely stunned,” said Mrs. Dunbar, encouragingly. “Michael, can you carry her?”

“Certainly I can,” declared the stalwart man, and shouldering the inert burden, her arms brought over his strong chest, and her limbs fetched around under his own strong arms, he carried the unconscious woman up the steps into Cragsnook.

Speechless with terror, Mary followed, while Mrs. Dunbar led the way with the light, and Jennie had hurried on ahead to make ready, scarcely knowing where the gruesome burden was to be rested.

“On the couch in the library,” ordered Mrs. Dunbar, “and, Jennie, telephone at once for Dr. Whitehead. I feel sure she is only stunned. Mary dear, be brave,” she continued. “We will surely bring your poor, old nurse back to you,” she finished.

But Mary stood like one transfixed, gazing at the helpless figure huddled on the low, leather couch.