ave me another minute of this day, I shall go
mad. I've had nothing but housework all the morning and then a little
talk with the girls, late this afternoon. I want something different
now."

"Well, let me read the third act to you," Pete offered.

"No, I don't feel like being read to. I want some excitement."

Pete sighed, and put his manuscript down.

"All right. Let's go in swimming. But I'll have to leave you after an
hour."

"Are you going to see Peachy?" Clara demanded shrilly.

"No." Pete's tone was stern. "I'm going to the Clubhouse."

"How has everything gone to-day, Billy?" Julia asked, as they sat
looking out to sea.

"Rather well," Billy answered. "We were all in a working mood and all in
good spirits. We've done more to-day than we've done in any three days
before. At noon, while we were eating our lunch, I showed them your
plans."

"You didn't say--."

"I didn't peep. I promised, you know. I let them assume that they were
mine. They went wild over them, threw all kinds of fits. You see, Pete
has a really fine artistic sense that's going to waste in all these
minor problems of construction and drainage. I flatter myself that I,
too, have some taste. Addington and Honey are both good workmen--that
is, they work steadily under instruction. Merrill's only an inspired
plumber, of course. Pete and I have been feeling for a long time that
we wanted to do something more creative, more esthetic. This is just
the thing we needed. I'm glad you thought it out; for I was beginning
to grow stale. I sometimes wonder what will happen when the New Camp is
entirely built and there's nothing else to do."

Billy's voice had, in spite of his temperamental optimism, a dull note
of unpleasant anticipation.

"There'll be plenty to do after that." Julia smiled reassuringly. "I'm
working on a plan to lay out the entire island. That will take years and
years and years. Even then you'll need help."

"That, my beloved," Billy said, "until the children grow up, is just
what we can't get--help."

Julia was silent.

"Julia," he went on, after an interval, in which neither spoke, "won't
you marry me? I'm lonely."

The poignant look--it was almost excruciating now--came into Julia's
eyes.

"Not now, Billy," she answered.

"And yet you say you love me!"

The sadness went. Julia's face became limpid as water, bright as light,
warm as flame. "I love you," she said. "I love you! I love you!" She
went on reiterating t