"In my short and uneventful career," responded Jean smiling, "I have not found that people are over-fond of admitting anything, least of all their weaknesses. I don't see how you can expect Helen to be superior to all the rest of the world--yourself and myself included. Now, imagine," she continued tantalizingly, "if anyone insisted upon your admitting your weakness for Mr. Church----" "Oh, keep quiet, Jean; you are too stupid." "Dear, dear," cried Jean, jumping up and closing her book, "of course I am, and that is my weakness; so now we are quits." Nathalie tossed her head as much as her position would permit. "Jean Lawrence," she said solemnly, "you bore me." "What a catastrophe!" Jean flung back her head with a merry laugh. "Good-by, dear; you are the picture of injured innocence." "Jean, come back," cried Nathalie, struggling to obtain an upright position. "I do think you are too bad. Ah, well, some day,"--then breaking into song: "Some day, some day, some day I shall meet you, Love, I know not when nor how; Love, I know not when nor how. Only this, Only this, only this, that once you loved me; Only this, I love you now----" "Rats!" called out a small voice from the lawn below. Nathalie raised herself on her elbow, and peered through the railing. "Larry, I am thunderstruck. What is the meaning of that weird expression?" "Nathalie singing a love song," cried Larry, scampering about on the lawn. "Oh, what fun!" "Larry," called Helen, coming out once more on to the veranda. "Where are Willie and Gladys? Why did you stay so long? I have been worrying about you." "Oh, they're coming along. Now, don't you worry, Helen, 'cause we was all right. You don't need never to send Mary with us," he added eagerly, "'cause we wouldn't get drownded, nor nothing, really." Jean strolled back from the other end of the veranda, and put her hand on Helen's shoulder. "Larry, love," she said, looking down at her little brother, "your grammar is something to be deplored." A fleeting smile lit up Helen's pale face and gentle brown eyes. "Ah, here come the little culprits," she cried, starting forward. "Gladys, my precious baby, I have been worried to death about you. What naughty chicks to have staid so long. Willie, I can never trust you." Willie was a grave little fellow, the eldest of the three children. "Why, Helen, we weren't gone long. Gladys was good, and so was Larry--that is pretty----" he added deprecatingly. "The moment I said 'Come on, children,' we all started; only Gladys, she couldn't walk very fast, so Larry wouldn't wait for us. Oh," sighed Willie, his grave little face in a pucker at the recollection, "I would rather Mary went along with Gladys another time." "Anyhow I was awful good, sister," lisped little Gladys, trying to frown on Willie, "only----"