But somehow joy permeated the whole atmosphere, and even at the tests Rose’s cheeks fairly burned with suppressed excitement.

CHAPTER XXII

THE WHIRLING MAY-POLE

“Oh, isn’t it too mean!” deplored Grace, talking to her chums, Cleo and Madaline, after succeeding in diverting the troublesome brother Benny over to his ballfield.  “Hal Crane drove out on his wheel to the woods, as he promised, you know, and not a letter, nor a line, nor a scrap was there,” and she dropped her dimpled chin down on her soft white dimity collar, until the top of her curly head slanted like a toboggan hill.

“That isn’t what worries me most,” interposed Madaline.  “It is the fact—­the solemn fact,” and she rolled her round eyes as if expecting a mote to sail out on a tear—­“that not one of our troop has done anything big enough to win the B. C.”

“How do you know?” queried Cleo mysteriously.  “We don’t each of us know what every single member of the troop has done, do we?” “Oh, but we would be sure to hear of anything big enough to win the Bronze Cross,” Grace assisted Madaline’s argument.  “And the True Treds are all so brave and such a fine set of girls!  Land knows, I tried hard enough with tieing my man to the tree!” and she indulged in one of her unpredicted gales, “and now to think even he has deserted us!”

“He may—­have had to go off for supplies or something,” suggested Cleo.  “We can hardly expect a cave man to be always so punctual.  But isn’t it lovely about our new member?”

“Yes,” answered Grace.  “Captain Clark told us last evening every single one passed her tests!  Daddy says the mill owners are simply delighted with the change in the employees.  You see, the men and boys always had organizations to cheer them along, but the girls and women were not treated like human beings.”  Grace was usually strong for her own rights and she had developed considerable individuality competing with Benny.

“Here’s Margaret.  I suppose she expected some—­wonderful news, too.  Really, girls,” gloomed Madaline, “I fear our cave man has deserted us.”

Margaret came blithely along, her tam-o’shanter being a little late in seasonable style, but so becoming that the detail was forgotten in the entire effect.

“Heard the news?” she inquired indifferently.  Her indifference indicated real importance, always.

“What news?” chorused the trio.

“We’re going on a picnic!”

“Where?” encored the chorus.

“Out to River Bend,” replied Margaret, making herself picturesque on a tree stump.  The conference was being held in a shady lane directly back of the home of Cleo Harris.

“River Bend!” a unanimous exclamation from the others.

“Certainly, why not?”

“Because that’s our secret place,” protested Grace, the first to come out in solo, “Why couldn’t some other place have been chosen?”