said Joyce, hurriedly, lowering her voice. "Here
come Phil and Doctor Bradford."

"No matter," he answered, airily. "I have no curiosity whatsoever. It's
a trait of character entirely lacking in my make-up." Then he motioned
toward Mary, who was sitting in a hammock, cutting the pages of a new
magazine. "Does _she_ know?"

Joyce nodded, and feeling that they meant her, Mary looked up
inquiringly. Rob beckoned to her ingratiatingly.

"Come into the garden, Maud," he said in a low tone. "I would have
speech with thee."

Laughing at his foolishness, but in a flutter of pleasure, Mary sprang
up to follow him to the rustic seat midway down the avenue. As Joyce's
parting glance had not forbidden it, she was soon answering his
questions to the best of her ability.

"You see," he explained, "it's not out of curiosity that I ask all this.
It's simply as a means of precaution. I can't keep myself out of hot
water unless I know how the land lies."

That last day of the house-party seemed the shortest of all. Betty and
Miles Bradford strolled over to Tanglewood and sat for more than an hour
on the shady stile leading into the churchyard. Lloyd and Phil went for
a last horseback ride, and Mary, watching them canter off together down
the avenue, wondered curiously if he would have anything more to say
about the bit of turquoise and all it stood for.

As she followed Joyce up-stairs to help her pack her trunk, a little
wave of homesickness swept over her. Not that she wanted to go back to
the Wigwam, but to have Joyce go away without her was like parting with
the last anchor which held her to her family. It gave her a lonely
set-adrift feeling to be left behind. She took her sister's parting
injunctions and advice with a meekness that verged so nearly on tears
that Joyce hastened to change the subject.

"Think of all the things I'll have to tell you about when I get back
from the seashore. Only two short months,--just eight little weeks,--but
I'm going to crowd them so full of glorious hard work that I'll
accomplish wonders. There'll be no end of good times, too: clambakes and
fishing and bathing to fill up the chinks in the days, and the
story-telling in the evenings around the driftwood fires. It will be
over before we know it, and I'll be back here ready to take you home
before you have time to really miss me."

Cheered by Joyce's view of the subject, Mary turned her back a moment
till she had winked away the tears that