Late in the afternoon Jo Severance suddenly cried out, “Here we are!” and called out to the paddlers to head the canoes toward the shore.

Glad to stretch their limbs after the long afternoon of sitting in the canoes, the Winnebagos sprang out on to the rocks which lined the water’s edge, and drew the boats up after them.  The place was, as Jo had promised, seemingly made for them to camp in.  High and dry above the stream, sheltered by great towering pine trees, covered with a thick carpet of pine needles, this little woodland chamber opened in the dense tangle of underbrush which everywhere else grew up between the trees in a heavy tangle.  Down near the shore a clear little spring went tinkling down into the river.

“Oh, what a cozy, cozy place!” exclaimed Migwan.  “I never thought of being cozy in the woods before—­it’s always been so wide and airy.  This is like your own bedroom, screened in this way with the bushes.”

“We’d better get the ponchos unrolled and the beds made up before we start supper,” said Sahwah briskly, getting down to business immediately, as usual.  The others agreed with alacrity, for they were ravenously hungry from the long paddle and anxious to get at supper as soon as possible.

When they came to lay the ponchos down, however, there was something in the way.  The whole narrow plot of smooth ground where they had expected to lay them was covered with evening primroses in full blossom, the fragile yellow blooms standing there so trustfully that they aroused the sympathy of the Winnebagos.

“It’s such a pity to crush them under the beds,” said tender hearted Migwan.  “I’m sure I couldn’t sleep if I knew I was killing such brave little things.”

The other Winnebagos stood around with their ponchos in their arms, uncertain what to do, loath to be the death of these cheery little wild things, yet unable to see how they could help it.

“Isn’t there some other place where we can camp, Jo,” asked Migwan, “and let these blossoms live?  It seems such a pity to crush them.”

Miss Amesbury turned and looked at Migwan with a keen searching glance which caused her to drop her eyes in sudden embarrassment.

Jo took up Migwan’s suggestion readily, though disappointed that they were not to stay in her favorite place.  “I think we can find another spot,” she said, and moved toward the canoes.

Tired and hungry, but perfectly willing to give up the desired spot to save the flowers, the Winnebagos launched out once more, and after paddling for half a mile found another camping ground equally desirable, though not as cozy as the first had been.  There was more room here, and the ponchos were laid down without having to sacrifice any flowers.

The sun had set prematurely behind a high bank of gray clouds during the last paddle up the river and there were no rosy sunset glows to reflect on the water and diffuse light into the woods, where a grey twilight had already fallen.  There was enough driftwood along the shore to build the fires, and these were soon shining out cheerily through the gathering gloom, while an appetizing odor of coffee and frying bacon filled the air.