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Patricia squeezed her hand surreptitiously. "You're so far up in the clouds these days that the commonplace side of life doesn't exist. You'll be all right after you get used to it," she soothed. "You're going to be pretty free to inhabit cloudland for this winter, and I'm willing to bet any reasonable amount that Hannah Ann will see to it that the housekeeping doesn't distract you next summer. She's perfectly crazy over your painting, since it's like Aunt Louise. And there won't be any boarders or any other money-making schemes this year to harrow our souls.",

Miss Jinny grunted amiably at him, and then rose. "I guess you know what you're about, Bruce Haydon. Don't look to me to protect you, though, for I'm a mighty active feminist, and I can't waste any of my valuable time taking care of such a common critter as a man." With a nod to the girls, she beckoned her mother.,

"Comedy!" echoed Mrs. Dallas, in scorn. "You mean tragedy!",

I don't know just how long I sat by the open window all by myself, bathed in a perfect flood of moonlight and loneliness. It was not a bit of comfort to hear Aunt Adeline snoring away in her room upstairs. It takes the greatest congeniality to make a person's snoring a pleasure to anybody, and Aunt Adeline and I are not that way.

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Patricia curled up cozily while Miss Jinny read the two Sunday chapters in a full, melodious voice, beginning with the ineffable words, "In my Father's house are many mansions.",

"What are you two conspirators hatching up over there in the corner?" called Bruce from the fireside. "We're making out our schedule, and you don't know what you're missing!",

The day passed delightfully, with morning service at the famous Dr. Arnold's stately church, a specially sociable dinner at home, and a 'bus ride through the crisp sunshine of the afternoon into the snowy outskirts, with a cozy little tea in Miss Jinny's big front room, where they could watch the twilight gather among the bare trees of the park and the lamps sparkle out among the shadows. After supper Mr. Spicer invited them in to see his collection of photographs which he had taken in all parts of the civilized and barbarous world, before the long illness, contracted in the swamps of West Africa, had put a stop to his active, adventurous life as a collector for the University.,

"I'm the only original Sinbad," she declared with a very un-Persian hitch to her flowing trousers. "I've got tales that'll make you creep, and as for hairbreadth escapes—why, I'm so full of 'em that I can't see a tumbler of water but that I make a noise like a shipwreck."