long lawn toward the headland, where Siward stood looking
out across the water.

Leila, from the music-room, watched her; then she heard Plank's voice,
and his step on the stair, and she called out to him gaily:

"I am downstairs, thank you. How dared you send me those foolish
nurses!"

She was laughing when he came into the room, standing there erect, head
high, a brilliant colour in her cheeks; and she offered him both hands
which he took between his own, holding them strongly, and looking into
her face with steady, questioning eyes.

"Well?" she said, still smiling, but her scarlet under-lip trembled a
little; then: "Yes, you may say what you wish--what I--I wish you to
say. ... There can be no harm in talking about it. But--will you be very
gentle with me? Don't m-make me cry; I h-have--I am t-trying to remember
how it feels to laugh once more."

Sylvia, lying in the hot sand on the tiny crescent beach under the
cliffs, listened gravely to Siward's figures, as, note-book in hand,
he went over the real-estate problem, commenting thoughtfully as he
discussed the houses offered.

"Twenty by a hundred and two; good rear, north side of the street--next
door to the Tommy Barclays, you know, Sylvia; only they're asking
forty-two-five."

"That is an outrage!" said Sylvia seriously; "besides, I remember there
was a wretched cellar, and only a butler's pantry extension. I'd
much rather have that little house in Sixty-fourth Street, where the
Fetherbraynes live--next house on the west, you know. Then we can pull
it down and build--when we want to."

"We won't be able to afford to build for a while, you know," said Siward
doubtfully.

"What do we care, dear? We'll have millions of things to do, anyway, and
what is the use of building?"

"As many things to do as that?" he said, looking over his note-book with
a smile.

"More! Are we not just beginning to live, and open our eyes, silly?
Listen: Books, books, books, from top to bottom of the house, that is
what I want first of all--except my piano."

"Do let us have a little plumbing, dear," he said so seriously that for
a fraction of a second she was on the verge of taking him seriously.

"Why extravagant plumbing when books furnish sufficient circulation for
the flow of soul, dear?" she retorted gravely.

"Nobody we know will ever come to see us, if they think we read books,"
said Siward.

"Isn't it delightful!" sighed Sylvia. "We're going to become frumps