on the place without wanting to build something out of a packing case
in it, or round it, or on top of it!" he said. "When the sheep come I'll
have to keep you from them, or you'll be building shelves round them!"

"Why, you're nearly as bad yourself!" grinned Wally.

"I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop. I'm going to leave nice
little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend up the
pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed. And then I've
got to think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across the flat, and
generally earning my living."

"Don't you worry," said David Linton. "You couldn't have done much
outside in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-furnished.
And we'll help you through with the other things."

"You're all just bricks," said Bob, his fair skin flushing--"only I
begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon. I can't always expect to
have my work done for me."

"You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else," Jim said
drily. "Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer. Just
stop talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to say to her
mansion."

"Say?" queried Mr. Linton. "Why, she'll point out to us all the places
where she wants shelves!"

"Shelves?" yelled the three as one man.

"Yes, certainly. There was never a woman born who had enough. Don't lose
sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up shelves as long
as you've an inch of wall to put them on. Come along, boys, and we'll go
home."

CHAPTER XIII

THE HOME ON THE CREEK

"I think it's the loveliest home that ever was!" said Tommy solemnly.

"Well, indeed, it takes some beating," Wally agreed.

"Creek Cottage"--the name was of Tommy's choosing--was ready for
occupation, and they had just finished a tour of it. There was nothing
in it that was not fresh and bright and dainty--like Tommy herself.
The rooms were small, but they had good windows, where the crisp, short
curtains were not allowed to obscure the view. There were fresh mattings
and linoleums on the floors, and the home-made furniture now boasted,
where necessary, curtains of chintz or cretonne, that matched its
colouring. Norah and Tommy had spent cheery hours over those draperies.
The curtains for Tommy's "suite" had been Norah's gift--of dark-green
linen, embroidered in dull blue silks; and in the corner there was a
little sofa with cushions of the same. Tommy had purred--was, i