“Is this the party?  How lovely!  What fun!” they cried, running down to join Morgan and be received by Curly Q. with ecstatic barks.

The magician was evidently expecting them, for he at once began distributing pointed sticks.

“What are they for?” asked Belle.

This was soon explained.  Mr. Whittredge produced a tin box from somewhere and proceeded to open it, and Katherine, who was next him, said, “Marshmallows.”

“Yes, this is a marshmallow roast,” he replied; and fixing one of the white drops on the pointed stick, he held it toward the glowing embers.

The others followed his lead without loss of time,—­the magician and all; and Curly Q. sat erect and eager, giving an occasional muffled “woof” to remind them that he liked marshmallows too.

The rose tints faded from the sky; the moon sailed higher; and the glow of the fire grew deeper.  The Arden Foresters toasted and talked, and ate their marshmallows, not forgetting Curly Q., and were as merry as the crickets that chirped around them,—­as merry, at least, as those insects are said to be.

When it was really impossible to eat another one, they built up the fire for the pleasure of watching it, and sang songs and told stories, the magician, with his elbows on his knees, looking from one to another and laughing as if he understood all the fun.

The glow of their fire and the sound of their voices could be seen and heard far up on Red Hill; so Celia Fair told them, emerging suddenly out of the darkness into the firelight.  In her white dress, with something fleecy about her head and shoulders, she suggested a piece of thistledown.

The children gave her a rapturous welcome and proffered marshmallows; the magician looked on smiling.  Allan had gone in search of firewood.  Celia had been up the hill to visit an old servant who was ill, and returning, with Bob for guard, had seen the fire and heard the voices.

“At first I thought of gypsies, and then Rosalind’s pointed hood suggested witches, and it was only when I reached the bridge that I recognized you,” she said; adding, “No, I can’t stay.  Bob is taking me home.”

“Do stay; I’ll take you home, Miss Celia,” said Jack, as Rosalind bestowed marshmallows on the grinning Bob.

Celia hesitated, then turned, as if about to dismiss her escort, when Allan Whittredge stepped into the circle and cast an armful of wood on the fire.  Celia retreated into the shadow.  “I must go, dear,” she whispered to Belle’s urging.

A chorus of protest followed her as she hurried up the bank.  She had hardly reached the road when she heard her name spoken quietly, and turning, she faced Allan Whittredge in the moonlight.

There was some hesitation in his manner as he said, “I can understand your wish to avoid me, and yet I am anxious to have a few moments’ talk with you, now or at any time that may suit you.”  As he spoke, a sense of the absurdity of this formality between old playmates swept over him, almost bringing a smile to his lips.