"Oh, yes. You can come along, 'cause you're just the person we might want," and Willie's air of importance was most impressive. "I guess Jean won't mind," said Larry. Willie was far too excited to vouchsafe a reply, and the children scurried along toward the orchard. Their route lay past the summerhouse, and when they were opposite it some pin-prick of conscience made them pause and look within. Jean and Farr were deeply absorbed in conversation, and it was quite apparent, even to their childish minds, that their sister would never notice their absence. Of one accord they broke into a run, and did not subside into a more demure pace until the shrubbery hid them from view. "You see," said Willie, when he had recovered his breath, "it is the greatest fun to play birds. All we've got to do is to use our arms right, an' then we can fly good enough. It said so in the book," he ended with a wise little nod of his head. Gladys' eyes grew big with wonder. "Can I fly, too?" she pleaded. "Course you can. You're just the most principal." Gladys beamed upon him, and her face wore a proud smile. To have Willie call her "the most principal" was a very deep and far-reaching compliment. Willie heaved a sigh of relief when, after scrambling over the stone wall, they were at last within the orchard. "Now, nobody can find us. We've all got to learn to fly. See, Larry, you just flop your arms so. They've got to be our wings." "Don't guess I'se got any wings," sighed Gladys, "'cause they don't f'y me a bit." Willie and Larry were racing around the orchard, swinging their arms in the air until they looked like animated wind-mills. Gladys trotted after them, striving to imitate their motions until her little legs and arms grew very weary. Then she stopped and stood watching them disconsolately. "I don't fink you games any fun at all," she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone, as the boys ran up to her puffing and panting from their exertions. "You don't f'y a bit like birdies, any more nor I do." Willie eyed her with great scorn. "Oh, you're only a baby. Course you can't do anything." "You said I was most principal," Gladys reminded him, with quivering lips. "Oh, I say," Larry broke in, "I'll tell you what we'll do, Will. We'll play she's a baby bird, an' then we'll teach her to fly. We must put her up in a tree, an' then pretend to shove her out of the nest, just the way the mamma bird does." Gladys' face brightened, and she smiled sunnily. "P'r'aps," objected tender-hearted Willie, "she might tumble herself an' break her wings." Larry scouted the idea. "You're a regular muff, Will. Gladys ain't afraid; are you, Gladys?" "Course I aren't," cried Gladys stoutly.