y, and I are due to catch early
trains to-morrow morning. Anne and I mustn't miss ours. We promised
Miriam we'd surely be with her to-morrow night."

"Anne, don't forget to tell Miriam not to dare do any shopping until
Mother and I arrive in New York," reminded Grace. "She promised to wait
for me, so that we could do our shopping together. I've written her
about it, but I wish you'd emphasize the fact for me."

"I will," promised Anne. "I know she will wait for you, though. She told
me she intended to."

With knowledge of the coming parting so near, the little company grew a
trifle less merry as they strolled home across the familiar fields in
the moonlight. Though Hippy had been the only one to confess it, the
plaintive melody of Nora's song of Golden Summer haunted them. With
summer at high tide in each heart, it was, as Hippy had remarked, not
quite pleasant to be reminded even tunefully that life holds the
inevitable autumn.

"I really believe Hippy meant what he said about that song," Tom
remarked meditatively to Grace.

"Were you thinking of that, too?" A faint, almost melancholy smile
flickered about Grace's lips as she asked the question. "It seemed to me
he was in earnest."

"I almost wish Nora hadn't sung it," returned Tom with unexpected
bluntness. "I went through such a long, dreary winter before _my_ Golden
Summer came. Now I wish it to stay with me forever. I'd like our lives
from this moment on always to be one long, continued Golden Summer like
the last two weeks. I can't bear to think that it might ever be
otherwise."

"'Perfect love casteth out fear,'" quoted Grace softly. "It's the only
true safeguard against the ills of life. After all, there's a note of
triumph in the ending of that song. With love to light us on our way, it
can't help but be always Golden Summer in our hearts."

CHAPTER II

THE HOUSE BEHIND THE WORLD

"How many letters for me, Bridget?" trilled Grace Harlowe as she raced
across the lawn to the front steps with the reckless enthusiasm of a
small boy. A glimpse of the postman's retreating back had brought her
scurrying from the garden to collect her own.

"Sure and it's a deal of mail ye be always gettin', Miss Grace,"
commented Bridget proudly, as she handed the eager-faced questioner a
small stack of letters that brought a sparkle of pleasant anticipation
to Grace's gray eyes.

"More than I deserve, I am sorry to say. I'm by no means a perfect
correspondent