After dinner the rain ceased, and as we supposed that they might not have made any preparations for a meal, Euphemia packed up some dinner for them in a basket, and I took it down to the camp.
They were glad to see me, and said they had a splendid time all day.
They were up before sunrise, and had explored, tramped, boated, and I don't know what else.
My basket was very acceptable, and I would have stayed awhile with them, but as they were obliged to eat in the tent, there was no place for me to sit, it being too wet outside, and so I soon came away.
We were in doubt whether or not to tell our friends the true history of the camp.

I thought that it was not right to keep up the deception, while Euphemia declared that if they were sensitive people, they would feel very badly at having broken up our plans by their visit, and then having appropriated our camp to themselves.

She thought it would be the part of magnanimity to say nothing about it.
I could not help seeing a good deal of force in her arguments, although I wished very much to set the thing straight, and we discussed the matter again as we walked down to the camp, after breakfast next morning.
There we found old John sitting on a stump.

He said nothing, but handed me a note written in lead-pencil on a card.

It was from our ex-boarder, and informed me that early that morning he had found that there was a tug lying in the river, which would soon start for the city.